


If Only, Dearest

by FlushedDeck



Series: Secret Love [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: (basically), Anal Sex, Developing Relationship, Dismemberment, Falling In Love, Forced Feminization, Historical, I will add characters/tags as chapters are added, Love Letters, M/M, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con Elements, Serious Injuries, World War I, World War II, to think this really is vanilla at the beginning lmfao
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-09-15 19:40:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 25,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9253085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlushedDeck/pseuds/FlushedDeck
Summary: Years in the making, they somehow came together, despite all that happened in the world. Despite the fact they never were supposed to love each other in the first place.It began in 1886. That is what Alfred always told himself, after all.





	1. Crown's Beginnings

            It began in 1886. That is what Alfred always told himself. He had a crush, if you could even call it that, on Francis since his revolution. But wasn’t that to be expected? The man had been a guiding hand on his shoulder since the victory at Saratoga. He had kept Alfred’s spirits up. Reassured him when he had felt helpless and on the brink of losing.

            Of course he would fall, slightly, in love with France, the one who fueled his people with the ideals he had been fighting for, the one who patched him up after battles, the one who kissed him on the forehead goodbye with all of the luck in the world.

            Go figure it would take another hundred years to actually do something with the man. Despite England’s accusations towards France, among others, America did not have sex with another nation until his Civil War. And no, it wasn’t with Russia when he showed up in his ports to give Europe a big _‘fuck you; stay away.’_ Ivan had been a friend who had pushed him along in a time where he was tearing himself apart.

            He had sex with the Confederacy at the end of the war.

            Had he technically had sex with himself? Yes. But, the man who he had laid with the night of the official surrender of the Confederacy had not been Alfred either. His hair had been thin, longer, darker in shade, and displayed running down his jaw to his chin. He had smelt like rotting cotton and gunpowder, fire and sterile wheat; what the south had become.

            It had not been all too pleasant, no, not at all, but they had consented.

            And when Alfred woke up in the next morning, the other had been gone without a trace, if not for the bite on Alfred’s neck. It stayed there for a long time, all the way through reconstruction. There were moles there now, maybe, simply dark patches of skin that if looked at correctly looked like black teeth marks.

            Francis never made a comment about it despite the fact his skin turned to moles, freckles, skin of the oppressed and lynched. Maybe he understood to some degree. He had his own scars, faded as they were, and had gathered many more in Alfred’s lifetime.

            Which is why he would pepper Francis’ neck with kisses on the pale, ever so pale, rings of scar tissue, that at one point been inflamed and bloody; a head sewn back on with thousands more falling. Why he could cradle one leg at a time running fingers over scar after scar from the trenches. Why he would press his cheek against Francis’ chest where if you looked, truthfully looked, a triangle could be seen over the heart.

            At one point in time it had been sewn into the skin, the fabric’s stitches constantly getting infected as he was kept in a cell. At some point after that, it had been ripped out and replaced with brand after brand after brand.

            He was never allowed to say sorry. That was their rule. He could coddle and kiss and caress and acknowledge, but he could never apologize. It was not his fault, much as Alfred’s scars were not Francis’ fault.

            Francis wasn’t allowed to say anything about Alfred’s burn scar over his heart or on his left hip, he wasn’t allowed to cry over the bite or the jagged white lines running around his mid torso, and he especially wasn’t allowed to feel remorse for Alfred’s situation within his own country which constantly put him at bed rest, mind turned to sludge unable to process the polar opposites and everything in between.

            But that was getting a head of everything. It had began in 1886, before total war was coined by the British in 1917, before the crash of the stock market, before he the liberation of Paris, before he had watched nation after nation fall head filled with paranoia, and long before Alfred admitted what he and Francis had was, indeed, love. Love.

            Francis always said he was a master of love, a spreader of love, love’s embodiment. He was easily as confused as Alfred was. Love always did that to someone, made their world turn upside down. Love.

            What a crazy idea love was. A crazy, crazy idea.

**-1886, New York-**

            Alfred stood in awe overlooking New York harbor. Today was the day, the day when the last rivet would be added to Liberty. Lady Liberty. France’s gift to the United States. Francis was going to be at the dedication, as had been indicated in his delegation’s letter, but Alfred had not seen him once.

            President Cleveland had left him to his own devices earlier in the morning, telling him to _‘enjoy himself with an old friend.’_ He didn’t have the heart to say it was much more than that, that he hadn’t spoken or even exchanged letters with Francis since before The French Revolution.

            That very thought had caused his heart to stop thumping at least three times over the past week. What would Francis think? What would Francis say? They had not seen each other since the signing of the Treaty of Paris in 1783. They had not spoken since President Washington had declared the United States neutral on France’s revolution.

            What were they supposed to do? Supposed to say? Pretend the last one hundred or so years hadn’t happened? Pretend everything was fine and dandy?

            Alfred had no idea what would become of the day and the night and the following morning and every day after that. He didn’t know if he would be able to walk tomorrow or if he would need his wheelchair or if he would need to stay in bed. He didn’t.

            He hated it. He hated the uncertainty.

            There were some things you couldn’t control. Not being in control of his own body, of his own mind, ate at him. Ate at his heart. Ate at his soul. He wanted it to end, wanted it all to be over. He wanted the scar to heal and the bite mark to go away.

            He wanted to be whole again.

            Reconstruction may have been considered over, in an official technical sense, but there was much more than that. It filled him with dread. Nothing would ever be the same. There was no chance.

            “America?”

            America turned around at his name, recognizing the speaker’s voice almost immediately. Francis had not changed in that regard and, for that, Alfred was thankful. His face was a proper shade without any powder plastered on and his hair fell to his shoulders in golden wavy locks instead of being hidden under a wig, but it was Francis.

            “France.”

            The man smiled taking the last few steps forward to grasp Alfred by the shoulders. His eyes, his whole expression, was warm. Welcoming. Alfred melted into it.

            “You have grown,” he lifted a hand to Alfred’s cheek. “The last time I saw you, you were barely up to my shoulders. And now you are taller than even me.”

            Alfred laughed, clasping a hand onto Francis’ shoulder in turn, “Western expansion has done wonders for that. I would apologize but I am quite happy with it. Not to mention you contributed to it yourself.”

            “I would hope so. You have grown into a strong young man Alfred and in such little time,” his eyes flickered down to Alfred’s cane grasped in one hand. “How are you holding out?”

            “Reconstruction is going to take time still, but I am managing. That is not what we should be worried about on a day like today,” he let his own smile split his face. “It is a celebration, dedication, to this wonderful gift.”

            Francis let the topic drop easily, moving to stand next to Alfred as to slide a hand around his waist looking out over the water like Alfred had been moments prior.

            “She is a beauty, I am glad she is yours.”

            “I’d like to think she’s both of ours Francis,” Alfred admitted sheepishly.

            Francis only let out a laugh, a joyful sound, which could have been seen as better than any thank you in the world. The hand resting above his hip squeezed the clothed skin there, a gentle pressure that sent tingles up his spine. How must they look right now? Like two long lost friends finally united? Is that what this was? A reunion?

            “We are allowed to go inside, correct?” Francis looked to him, looked up to him, “Do you have a boat so we can cross?”

            “Yes, we are going across with President Cleveland and your delegates, and we are allowed to stay over longer than they are if we so wish. He extended an invitation for dinner tomorrow between the three of us and anyone you wish to invite, but tonight we are on our own,” Alfred explained, readjusting his weight on his legs.

            “Giving us time to catch up?” Francis asked, sounding amused.

            “Something like that,” he paused, rubbing the back of his neck as the two finally broke apart. “I did not really have the heart to tell him we haven’t spoken in many years. So, I apologize ahead of time if he seems a bit forward. If that is the right word for it.”

            “Intense maybe? His face seems that way,” Francis linked their arms, the one not occupied by Alfred’s cane, as they began to walk towards the docks.

            “He has a soft spot for me, so either way we’ll be fine,” Alfred reassured.

            Francis shook his head, expression clearly amused as his teeth showed in his smile. They walked in comfortable silence after that, Francis not commenting on Alfred’s battle with some of the stairs. He only squeezed Alfred’s hand in reassurance when they reached the bottom, a clear sign of support.

            Only when they were moving across the water did Francis lean in to be heard over the rush, hair brushing along Alfred’s clothed arm, “I think everyone has a soft spot for you, in the end.”

            Alfred blinked twice before the words processed, ears going pink with the compliment.

            “See? Adorable. You may have grown up but you are still cute as ever,” and now he was being teased, partially.

            Alfred nudged Francis’ shoulder with his own in response, feeling heat rising to his cheeks. It was as if they had been friends for years, which they had been in a sense, but the hundred year gap never existed. It was nice, relaxing.

            “How is everyone doing over in Europe? I have only recently spoken with the Russian personification and I never got to ask him.”

            Francis hummed, contemplating what answers he could give. “Well, I only recently went to the Berlin Conference, if you have heard about it, and it was interesting to say the least. The world is changing once again and I cannot but help feel as though something is amiss.”

            Alfred looked at Francis with a frown, concern clearly showing. “What do you think is wrong?”

            “There is nothing wrong yet, and there very well might never be, but I saw the German personification again alongside his brother, Gilbert. You remember him, yes?”

            Alfred nodded when Francis paused.

            “I have only seen him once before now, at the end of the war between myself and Prussia. He was around thirteen maybe fourteen physically at the time. He sat in on negotiations at the end of the war at Prussia’s insistence,” his brows furrowed together, eyes showing nothing but faint disbelief.

            “Gilbert brought his physically thirteen year old brother to the conference? For dividing up land in Africa? Didn’t the Germans not get as much land anyways?” Alfred asked.

            “Yes, but that’s not the problem,” he sighed. “I saw him, we all saw him, and he was clearly not thirteen anymore. He was practically eighteen or nineteen years physically.”

            Alfred went still at that, his own expression turning to worry.

            “I only aged four years so I was about sixteen before my revolution, and that took about forty years. It kick started a bit more after the Seven years’ War, but, he aged five more years in fourteen years?”

            Francis only nodded lips drawing into a thin line.

            “Yes, it would appear so. Both Britain and I thought you had aged fast, as did Prussia and Spain, many others, to be honest. The only other who had aged so quickly before was Russia. He had a growth spurt, as you could call it, in a period of fifty years aging three years in that time, which almost never happens,” and in that moment, Francis did look scared.

            Scared.

            Had he been scared of Alfred too?

            “Then you aged four years in forty, with justifiable cause. Now Germany, Ludwig, has aged five in fourteen.”

            Justifiable cause, means, happenings. He could say that now, but what did Francis think then? Did Francis expect a twelve year old to be waiting for him when he arrived in New York all of those years ago? Had he been surprised, scared, haunted, by the fact Alfred was sixteen? Was practically an adult to humans?

            “But it’s more than that. He is already thinking too much like his brother- and please, do not get me wrong. Prussia is an old friend of mine; Gilbert and Francis are, and surely always will be, friends. But Prussia, the Prussian personification, scares me. He has scared me in the past and he still does even now,” he took in a sharp breath, eyes closing. “Germany is starting to scare me too. He is getting too powerful too fast, much too fast, and I only imagine what that might mean for Europe.”

            Alfred said nothing, only placing a comforting hand on Francis’ shoulder. His thumb rubbed the shirt fabric there in steady slow circles. What else could he do?

            “But, I digress. This is a good day, a reunion between old friends,” he opened his eyes, blue and once again clear of worry. “We should be enjoying ourselves.”

            Alfred nodded in agreement. His thumb came to a halt. He let his hand fall back to his side.

            They broke apart as the boat came to a stop. Liberty rose high above into the sky, bronze gleaming in the sunlight. Alfred still felt awed by it, by her. Her? Her. Francis looked equally as delighted with the result.

            “You put her together well.”

            Alfred beamed. “I helped out with the beginnings of construction but as we had to build higher, Cleveland made me stop. He didn’t want me getting hurt or straining myself.”

            “Why, isn’t that generous?” Francis teased.

            Their arms linked once again, descending down onto the docks behind France’s delegates. Alfred took Francis away from the group nodding to one of Cleveland’s aids before they slipped away towards her base.

            “We get to go up and talk in the crown and torch while they do all of the official stuff down here, we can come down for the final rivet, if you want to, of course,” he quickly added the option onto the end.

            “That sounds perfectly fine, and no offense, but you make much better company than the others. I believe I will pass on seeing the final one put in,” and so they ascended upwards towards the crown.

            Alfred went a bit slower than he normally would. If he didn’t have the cane he would have been able to go more quickly, but instead he held Francis behind. Useless. So useless. But Francis said nothing. His smile was back in place, an expression that was Francis Bonnefoy’s alone. He knew something Alfred didn’t, and Alfred could tell.

            By the time they reached the top, Alfred’s legs were pulsing with underlying pain. He tried not to show it, really he did, but Francis still wrapped an arm around his waist. He still said nothing.

            They walked over towards the crown’s openings, Alfred’s shoulders dropping in relief as a smile took over his face. It was a beautiful view. He could only hope Francis liked it too. Fingers rubbed against his side. Comforting. Familiar.

            “Thank you for sharing this with me Alfred,” Francis spoke quietly, sincerely.

            “You’re welcome, I am glad you could come,” and at that Francis’ hand faltered.

            Alfred turned his head to look at the other instead of outside only to see Francis gazing directly back at him mouth slightly open. A tongue darted out to lick at dry lips. Francis couldn’t meet Alfred’s eyes. He was looking lower.

            Oh.

            The touches, the familiarity, Francis’ expression as they had come up.

_Oh._

            “I understand if you do not want to do anything,” and just like that, Francis knew he knew. “It is a bit crass to have your first time in a now national monument.”

            “It’s not my first,” the words rushed out on their own, Alfred’s cheeks pinking.

            Francis’ eyes darted up to meet Alfred’s. They were questioning, surprised, interested.

            “Russia?”

            “No, no. I was still at bed rest when he came to visit and he wasn’t there when I finally got to visit Alaska,” he shifted, nervous.

            “Britain?”

            That got Alfred to flinch, what could only be disgust covering his face.

            “No. God no.”

            Francis was out of guesses.

            “It was Thomas, ah, the Confederacy.”

            Alfred expected backlash, maybe confusion. Francis only smiled, a sad smile this time, as he reached up to cup Alfred’s face. Understanding. He understood. He-

            He kissed him.

            Alfred’s eyes fluttered closed. The tension left his shoulders. His cane dropped to the floor. His hands went to Francis’ waist, then his hair at the base of his skull. Francis made a pleased noise at that kisses peppering down towards Alfred’s pulse.

            Alfred moaned, unabashed, as lips trailed down to his collar. Nimble fingers began to unbutton his shirt, pushing it to the side so lips, tongue, teeth, could go lower. His fingers tightened, gripping at the golden locks between them. Francis shuddered.

            “You are very reactive, loud,” Francis murmured. Alfred could feel his smile against heated skin. “I like that.”

            The rest of Alfred’s reservations melted away, legs feeling like goo. As if Francis could read his mind, he lowered them both to the floor sitting on Alfred’s lap to continue to lavish Alfred’s neck with kisses.

            Alfred tipped his head back to let Francis continue, reaching for Francis’ buttons to hopefully return the favor. That’s what you were supposed to do, right? But Francis paused. He sat back gently taking Alfred’s hands into his own.

            “Let me do the work. While I rarely get such a recuperative partner these days, think of this as an extended part of my gift,” he kissed Alfred knuckles after he finished speaking before he moved to take Alfred’s shirt off his shoulders.

            The fabric fell to the floor silently, slipping off of Alfred’s body and arms. The scar on his torso easily stood out, still pink against pale skin. Francis’ fingers ran over it softly, tracing the jagged line across his ribs under his belly button and to his hip where it then disappeared below his pants.

            Alfred shifted nervously as Francis seemed to pick him apart with his eyes, hands itching to dip below Alfred’s belt. It was completely different than it had been with himself, with the other, with Thomas. Francis was gentle, appreciative, loving; he was everything Thomas had not been.

            Alfred surrendered himself to it.

            “Please,” he practically begged, tugging at Francis’ shirt. Two of his buttons were undone, but his jacket had not been taken off and only his collarbones were visible from the small gap created.

            Francis did as Alfred asked, moving back to take off his jacket and shirt. The jacket was placed to the side and the shirt on top of it. He leaned forwards, pressing his chest to Alfred’s while giving him another kiss. It was slow, deliberate. Alfred could only melt into it once again, hands trailing up Francis’ back until they reached his shoulder blades.

            They moved together, Francis taking the lead and directing what Alfred had to do. He felt safe. He felt loved.

            Their shoes came off, then their pants. Francis had not worn gloves and he did not bother with peeling off their socks. He reached into his pants pocket, taking out a vial of oil that was big enough to have been noticed while in the fabric.

            “Do you always carry that around?” Alfred asked watching as Francis popped the top off.

            “Not always. I typically only do so when I believe my flirtations will be recuperated, or if I am feeling adventurous,” his eyes practically twinkled at the last part.

            He sat down between Alfred’s legs, spreading them out before pouring some of the oil into his hand. Alfred felt as though he should be embarrassed, but there was nothing but appreciation in Francis’ expression, in his body language.

            Francis himself was beautiful. His skin, while pale, was not unhealthy. Scars, both old and recent, decorated it, the whites and pinks being the only blemishes. No moles or freckles were present, only dark body hair that Alfred wanted to touch. His waist was slim with almost dainty boney wrists and ankles highlighting the fact. He was everything Alfred was not.

            Alfred, with a still not quite adult body, uneven tan lines, splashes of freckles and moles, thick legs connected to a thick torso, with baby fat clinging to his cheeks, and body hair that was practically nonexistent could never compare to the picture perfect looks of Francis. Even without makeup and clothes he oozed beauty and dignity, things Alfred knew he lacked.

            Yet Francis was the one who looked at his as though he was the masterpiece, a marble statue worked on for countless years without a problem or abnormality in sight. Francis made him feel that way, with one look, with one kiss, with one word.

_Is that what love was supposed to feel like?_

            But, the thought was lost to Alfred almost as soon as it came. A finger slowly slid into his entrance, the oil warm on Francis’ fingers as to make it as comfortable as possible. Alfred tried to relax, moaning again as Francis’ free hand went for his member. Francis’ thumb swiped over the head with practiced ease as his other hand worked Alfred open.

            “Francis, please,” he begged, but Alfred didn’t know what he was asking for. Did he want Francis to go faster? Stop teasing him? Do something?

            “Please?” Francis asked, sliding in a second finger slower than he had added the first.

            Alfred whined, wiggling his hips down to take more in. Francis only let out a tut, pressing Alfred’s hip down so he would not move. He didn’t stop preparing Alfred completely, but he dragged it out adding, a third finger after minutes of Alfred’s wiggling and panting.

            Precum dribbled down onto Alfred’s stomach. Francis was torturing him. He was. Then, Alfred saw stars. Another moan ripped through the air. Alfred bucked. Francis smiled.

            “There it is,” and with that, he hit it, whatever it was, over and over again.

            Before he knew what was happening, Alfred came slumping back on his arms and elbows in bliss. When he blinked back into reality, Francis was only smiling as cum cooled on his skin. Francis was still hard. Waiting.

            “What?” it came out quietly, Alfred still breathless.

            “That, dear Alfred, was your prostate gland. At least, I am pretty certain it is. It is the only thing in that area that would give you such sensations, unless there is something that human biologists are missing, which they could be,” he spoke slowly, evenly, as he poured more oil onto his hands.

            “Oh.”

            Oh. That was all he could say. He watched as Francis slicked himself up before gently gripping Alfred’s legs. He lifted them so they would be on Francis’ shoulders as Francis slid closer, practically bending him in half.

            “Wow,” he spoke, once again sounding like an idiot. His glasses were foggy, his cheeks tinting redder and redder by the second.

            He was getting hard again.

            Francis kissed him, a soft press of lips as he entered ever so very slowly. Alfred tipped his head back, letting out a sigh. It did not hurt as much as he thought it would. It was more uncomfortable than anything else with a slight burn behind the stretch.

            “I have to say, I was a bit apprehensive about whether or not you would want to do this Alfred,” Francis whispered against his cheek, nose soon grazing against Alfred’s jaw as his lips dipped back down to his neck.

            “Why wouldn’t I?” it was asked in a strained voice as it became harder and harder to think straight, no pun intended.

            “You said it yourself, you have only had sex once before and unlike us Europeans, who are used to using sex with treaties and such, you do not have that experience. You said it yourself that Russia was not there when you visited Alaska, and you never did go to many of the meetings that involved gaining new land,” he kissed Alfred’s pulse point. “Arthur spoke offhandedly to me that you had not been there to finalize the Oregon territory. He believes you to be a prude.”

            “Coming from him, that must be a joke,” Alfred whispered right back, smiling as Francis began to laugh. “In truth, I was simply busy. And I do not see the need to have sex with others all of the time. Why should I need to?”

            “You do not need to, it is simply expected. Is that not why you are having sex with me?” to emphasize the point, he moved. Alfred groaned, a quiet sound, barely louder than their words.

            “I am having sex with you because I have wanted to do so since the signing of the Treaty of Paris, expectations have nothing to do with it.”

            “Is that why you were present when we gave you the Louisiana Territory?”

            “And why I was off put when you could not make it? Perhaps,” his eyelashes fluttered as Francis moved again, and again. This time he didn’t stop.

            “Allow me to make it up to you then.”

            Alfred could only agree as Francis moved faster, skin slapping against skin creating music to Alfred’s ears. Francis’ fingers could not to justice to this, however talented they may be. Moan after moan came from Alfred as he went back to full hardness, Francis coming undone at the sight.

            Francis sucked harshly at the base of Alfred’s neck, a hand reaching down to pump Alfred’s cock in tandem with thrusts that were beginning to falter. Alfred didn’t know what to focus on. His skin was alight like a flame, pleasure clouding his thoughts and being. It felt good, so, so, so good. He never wanted to stop.

            Francis came first, finally halting his trusts only to pump Alfred faster. He finally let go of Alfred’s neck with a pop, seeming extremely satisfied from the action, or was it from the fact he had finally came? It didn’t matter. Alfred came again, his toes curling.

            They sat in silence after that, Francis peppering kisses across Alfred’s collarbone as he slid out completely. It was an odd feeling, it always was, but Alfred felt content. There was a tingle under his skin, a pleasant buzz, which he hoped Francis shared.

            He sat up, kissing Francis once again with the swipe of his tongue. He grabbed the oil bottle, shifting so he was in the same position Francis had been moments prior. He held back a wince, a twinge running up his legs, more concentrated than before. Francis stopped him with a hand on his shoulder.

            “I do not want you to hurt yourself.”

            “I want to repay the favor,” Alfred said, stubbornly. But it hurt, it made his legs tremble.

            “Perhaps when we get back to your place and are in a bed you can, all right?” Francis smiled at him again, understanding apparent. It was dazzling, more than Alfred could ask for.

            But, Alfred was stubborn. Very stubborn. He shifted nervously, a hand coming up to wrap around his other wrist, bottle held loosely in between his fingers. He mumbled out a question, so quiet that Francis couldn’t hear it.

            “Hmm?”

            “I said, ride me. That’s the term for it, right?” he looked up, once again blushing madly down his neck. “It is, right?”

            Francis tried not to laugh, he really did. He couldn’t help it as his shoulders started to bounce in mirth. Alfred looked down, clearly ashamed of what he had asked. Before he could apologize, Francis leaned forwards to kiss him again. Alfred was stiff at first, but he soon relaxed once again by the time Francis pulled back to rest their foreheads together.

            “Yes, it is. You truthfully are adorable, getting so embarrassed and worked up over something like that,” he teased fingers drawing light circles over Alfred’s hips.

            “That’s because it’s an embarrassing topic,” Alfred spoke, scandalized.

            “Well, if it makes you feel any better, such things are not embarrassing with me. I have seen everything you can and cannot think of in the bedroom Alfred, so I can assure you your request is not that far-fetched,” he moved onto his back, propping his legs open.

            His whole posture spoke of the fact he knew he looked good, that he had nothing to be ashamed of.

            “You do need to know such things however, so, you may prepare me if you so wish. I can even help you through the process,” he tilted his head to the side, hair falling to the floor in waves. “You will need to know such things eventually and it is better that you learn from an experienced lover who will gladly do so without deceiving you.”

            Alfred swallowed, nodding in agreement. “How long are you staying?”

            “About two weeks, then I will be returning home. It will be more than enough time for you to show me around and for us to enjoy ourselves. By the time I leave, you will know all of the basics and even a few extra techniques that I have found exceedingly helpful,” he held out a hand motioning for Alfred to come closer. “That will be in the proper setting of your bedroom, for now, we will finish up here so we may always remember our first times in Liberty’s embrace.”

            Alfred nodded again, scooting forwards so his hands rested on Francis’ thighs. The man offered a hum in encouragement, opening his legs wider so Alfred could easily sit between them.

            “Do what you think feels right for foreplay. Different people like different things, so pay attention to their reactions. While some will not be ashamed to hide what they like, others may not be so accommodating,” he gave Alfred a pointed look. “It can be annoying, but proving you are better than them despite that fact, even in a bedroom situation, will make them feel inadequate to you. While it is cruel, using it to your advantage when it comes to land deals and treaties can help you out immensely.”

            Alfred listened to Francis speak with an open mind. He set the oil down a bit out of the way so it would not tip over before he put his hands on Francis’ thighs again. As Francis’ words finally pattered off, he moved his hands upwards, letting the fingertips barely graze over the skin. Francis got goose bumps quickly, letting out a sigh as Alfred’s hands reached his hips. His hands kept going upwards, passed his navel and up Francis’ sides over his ribs. Alfred leaned down to press a kiss above his right hipbone.

            Francis relaxed into the floor, letting off small noises to show Alfred what he found pleasing. As Alfred’s hands traveled up, his lips traveled down. They were a bit sloppy, slower than Francis normally liked, but Francis saw the way Alfred’s brow was creased in concentration. He wanted Francis to feel good, to feel pleasure, and was trying to do so even if he had his own discomfort.

            Francis, however, did not expect Alfred to be so forward. A nail circled one of his nipples as it got stiff, the other being rolled in between two fingers. Lips dipped down past his happy trail and weeping member to press kisses to Francis’ inner thighs. His legs shuddered, a groan finally falling from Francis’ lips.

            He felt Alfred smile, finally, as he kept going. He began sucking at the tender skin, trying to leave a hickey behind with minimal success.

            “You need to suck harder, like I did earlier,” Francis’ voice sounded more breathless than he thought it would, but Alfred didn’t seem to notice.

            “I don’t want to hurt you,” Alfred finally looked up, from behind Francis’ hardening dick of all places, to meet Francis’ eyes.

            “You won’t, I can assure you.”

            Alfred was so endearing at times. He knew how strong Alfred could be and so far Francis had seen how he kept it in check, despite the fact he was not at full health. Francis could only fantasize about what Alfred could do if he put his mind to it. Perhaps, and only if Alfred had a good day, Francis could test that theory by being pounded into Alfred’s bed. Or a wall in his house. Or another flat surface, like a table, only to see how strong Alfred really was.

            Those thoughts went right to his groin, as did Alfred’s improved hickey technique. Alfred’s hands, warm and callused, dear god Francis wanted them on his body all day, trailed back down so he could hold down Francis’ hips. He opened his mouth to ask why, only for heat to surround him, a gasping choking noise escaping his lips instead.

            Alfred’s eyes glanced back up to Francis’ face, playfulness clearly there. He hummed before Francis could say anything again, his tongue running over the underside of Francis’ cock. He slid off with a pop, a smack of the lips, before he went back to lather the head with licks and kisses, drinking up the precum with no complaint about the bitter taste.

            “Where did you learn that?” Francis asked, chest showing uneven breaths,

            “I did what felt right.”

            It was Francis’ turn to swallow back spit, eyes widening a fraction. This was something he could easily work with. Another time.

            “It most definitely did feel right, however, I am not as youthful as I once was. It is time for the main act Alfred,” he shifted to sit up a bit, hands going back to support him.

            “You don’t look a day over twenty four,” Alfred spoke sincerely, leaning over to grab the oil once again.

            “Such flattery, Mister Jones. I will have you know, I am somewhere close to two millennia and the fact you see me in such a light fills an old heart with joy,” he put a hand over his heart, watching as Alfred let out a bout of laughter.

            He chose not to respond as he poured the oil onto one of his hands. He looked to Francis with determination, hand reaching down, only to falter before he touched skin.

            “Put in one finger to start, or circle around the outside first if that helps your psych. I will tell you if you end up going too fast, but normally you will be able to tell whether or not I am loose enough. Take your time, there is no rush.”

            Alfred opened his mouth to respond, only to close it with an audible click. He bit at his lower lip before he finally let his finger touch Francis again. It went around once, twice, before he pushed in, going slower than Francis had earlier, but not so slow that Francis would have to ask him to go faster.

            Francis closed his eyes as Alfred stretched him. He was being cautious, overly so, but Francis could not complain about such a thing. A careful lover, one who only wanted him to feel pleasure. They were few and far in between among nations.

            It made Francis want to keep Alfred to himself.

            But Alfred would eventually have to be with someone else. He would eventually have to have sex with others, not only Francis. While Alfred was mostly isolationist, one could not stay that way forever, and one could not completely ignore the world.

            Was Francis being selfish for wanting Alfred for himself? Yes. Perhaps his imperialist streak hadn’t ended yet. Perhaps it never would.

            Francis only let out a sigh allowing the thoughts to dribble from his head. Such things would never happen; he had learned that long ago. He opened his eyes as Alfred began to rub his thumb over Francis’ hipbone, three fingers scissoring him open in rhythmic motions.

            “Take a look at my posture Alfred; can you see how my body is trying to get closure to you? Can you feel how easier it is getting to move your fingers? That is when you may go about slicking yourself up and entering your partner. You can also drag it out and tease them, if that is your intention,” Francis paused, watching as Alfred took all of this information in.

            His eyes darted over Francis’ body. He squirmed.

            “You are doing wonderfully. You may sit back now.”

            Alfred followed Francis’ command as the man sat up. He sat back similar to how he had been before. Francis dumped out some of the last of the oil before once again pumping Alfred a few times. He was hard again, already.

            Francis could tell Alfred was starting to finally get embarrassed, truthfully embarrassed.

            “I wish I still had a sex drive that high,” Francis commented as he finally lifted himself over Alfred’s hips. “To be young again.”

            “You’re plenty young Francis.”

            Alfred opened this mouth to say something more but he only let out a choked up gasp as Francis sank down. Francis let out a choppy sigh once he reached Alfred’s base, watching as the younger struggled to breathe.

            “Do you feel okay?”

            Alfred blinked, looking up at Francis in slightly bewilderment. Francis watched as his Adam’s apple dipped down as he swallowed once, then twice.

            “Oh dear God,” was all he managed to get out.

            “He surprisingly has nothing to do with this,” Francis teased.

            He placed a comforting hand on Alfred’s stomach, feeling it move rapidly under his palm. Alfred looked stunning like this, sprawled under Francis, unable to speak, skin marked with bites and hickeys and sweat. His hair was sticking to his forehead, cowlick still present despite the fact.

            “I never commented, but I do like the shorter haircut. It suits you, as do the glasses,” Francis reached over to brush Alfred’s bangs back. His glasses were partially fogged.

            He looked absolutely debauched. And Francis loved it.

            “Thanks,” he finally looked Francis in the eyes. “I like your hair too; it looks much better this way than under a wig.”

            At that, Francis felt a warm smile take up his face. Alfred returned it. It was a strange moment, quiet, warm. Light streamed in from the outside casting shadows. If he listened hard enough he could hear the humans down below. One of Alfred’s hands came up to hold one of Francis’. He gave it a gentle squeeze making the moment real, actually real.

            What would he give to experience this again?

            What would he do to feel this way again?

            Alfred’s other hand twitched and he shifted his lower body causing Francis to move atop him.

            “Where should I put my hands?” Alfred asked. He let Francis’ go.

            “Right above my hips,” he directed Alfred’s hands to the right spot. “If you feel the need, I give you my express permission to move me along faster.”

            Alfred froze up at that, his grip getting firmer. Not nearly enough to bruise, no, but enough to be noticeable. He seemed flustered at that comment. His cheeks flushed darker than they had since Francis arrived.

            “Why would you say something like that? How can you say something like that? So easily?” he fired off question after question. He shifted nervously causing Francis to groan. He froze again.

            “We will have to work on this bashfulness of yours. Alfred, I am saying it because you literally have your penis shoved up my ass-”

            “Oh my god, Francis-”

            “- so I figured that saying such would be appropriate in this situation. It is not as if I go around saying such things at random to humans and nations alike. I admit I have said such things to Britain in the past to rile him up, but it was merely a jest, and he needs to get over it.”

            Alfred had nothing to say to that, averting his eyes towards the crown’s openings. Francis only sighed before he lifted himself up. Alfred immediately looked back up at him, worry on his face.

            “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to ruin the mood or-” but he didn’t get to finish as Francis sat back down. His mouth stayed open, no sound coming out for a few seconds before he let out a choked ‘oh.’

            “I assure you that you have not.”

            That was the end of the conversation. Francis moved back up, Alfred rubbing circles into Francis’ skin where they had not moved from, and back down steadily. He purposely went slow watching Alfred’s desire grow as his hips twitched then bucked up to meet Francis’ movements.

            “Please,” he finally gasped out. Sweat had begun to run down Francis’ brow.

            “Please what?”

            Alfred let out a pitiful noise in response, head falling back against the ground with a solid thunk. He mumbled something out. Francis leaned in closer to try to catch it. He didn’t manage to.

            “Use your big boy words America.”

            France only smiled when he finally looked back into his eyes. Francis’ tone of voice had a challenge behind them. They both knew it.

            “Please. Go faster,” it wasn’t asked. France tsked.

            “I already told you how you can do that.”

            Alfred frowned. Francis let one of his hands rest over Alfred’s own.

            “Is it going to hurt you to do so?” Francis asked. If that was the case then he would indeed do something.

            “No,” Alfred paused shifting so he could sit up a bit more. “I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to take that chance.”

            Francis’ expression softened. No, he definitely didn’t want to give Alfred up.  But he would have to. After two weeks. They only had two weeks.

            “You will not hurt me Alfred.”

            “But-”

            “Ravish me.”

            Nothing happened at first. Francis thought he might have gone too far, but that doubt was gone the second Alfred’s grip tightened. He lifted Francis up without a falter in his breath before bringing Francis back down, hard.

            Francis knew he would get bruises now. He welcomed it.

            “Yes. Yes, yes, _yes-_ ” Francis’ words were stopped with a punctuated moan. Pleasure shot up his spine and sizzled, he saw white under his eyes.

            They moaned and panted and sighed as Alfred kept going. Skin slapped against skin. Laughter and clapping could be heard from outside. Alfred would remember this for the rest of his life. He didn’t need to think about a century’s worth of longing or a growing resentment since Louisiana, growing and growing through the Civil War, he only had to think about Francis’ gift and Francis’ smile and Francis. It was all Francis.

            Francis.

            “Francis,” he half moaned half called out. He brought Francis down again sitting up so he could smash their lips together. Francis grinned, wrapping his arms around Alfred’s neck and shoulders as he kept bouncing up and down.

            Alfred was close, as was Francis. Alfred reached down between their bodies to pump Francis slowly which was what pushed him over the edge for the second time. Alfred came soon afterwards their bodies finally stilling.

            They stayed that way for a while. Francis presses his face against the side of Alfred’s neck, lazily pressing kiss after kiss to the same patch of skin. Alfred rubbed a hand over the small of Francis’ back still dazed.

            “You, wow, _wow,_ ” he finally whispered out, smiling sheepishly at Francis’ laughter.

            “I could easily get used to this,” Francis said. He finally sat back, sliding off of Alfred’s now soft member to sit on the floor.

            “Well, we only have two weeks, but I believe we will be able to do something like this again within the time, my legs withstanding.”

            Francis’ smile morphed, his tongue poking out between his lips.

            “Did you not hear me Alfred? You have a lot to learn in the art of love, and while you are a quick learner two weeks is still cutting it close,” he winked letting his fingers tap against the floor. “But, I have full confidence in your abilities.”

            “You do?” it was asked playfully, Alfred’s eyes lighting up.

            “I do. In fact-” he leaned forwards, Alfred doing the same- “what do you say we leave a bit early and continue back at your home?”

            “I wouldn’t object, however, I think we’re going to need a lot more oil,” he pointedly looked at the mostly empty bottle set off to the side.

            “I have plenty more in my luggage.”

            “You planned this.”

            “I cannot confirm or deny such a thing.”

            Alfred opened his mouth to continue only to stop when a yell sounded up from the staircase inside of the statue.

            “Mister America, do you and Mister France plan on returning to the city with the main envoy!?”

            France put a hand over his mouth as he tried not to laugh, Alfred scrambling to stand up not know if the other was coming up or not. If they were, they were in for quite the sight.

            “We will be down in a few moments Mister Stevenson! And I have told you a million times that you can call me Alfred!” he called down, trying to put on his pants without hurting his legs.

            “Would you like me to come up and escort you both down?”

            “No!” Alfred spoke to quickly. “No, please do not bother. We are coming right down and it is a long ways up.”

            There was silence, no sound of anyone climbing. Alfred let out a sigh of relief.

            “Understood! I will be with President Cleveland at the docks, please do hurry,” and with that, the human walked away, most likely. Francis burst out laughing as Alfred finally relaxed again, shoulders slumping.

            “Who was that?” Francis finally asked, standing up in order to also get dressed.

            “My vice president, who is a good man but a bit nosy, in my opinion,” he explained, buttoning up his shirt.

            They got dressed in comfortable silence after that, Alfred offering Francis a handkerchief to wipe some of the sweat and cum off of himself. Francis only raised a brow at the stitching. Alfred shrugged, trying to use his fingers to put his hair back in order.

            “Is this..?”

            “He sends them to me around Christmas every year. What a better way to use them, right?”

            Petty. Francis liked it. He would have to tell Arthur about how he had used Arthur’s own embroidery to wipe America’s cum off of his body. He would probably get a bloody nose, but it would be worth it. Maybe he could even take it as a souvenir.

            He could frame it and ‘re gift’ it then.

            He shoved the now used handkerchief into his pocket next to the oil bottle before making his way to the stairs, Alfred directly behind him.

            They walked out to the boat, smiling and nodding at the others who had no clue what had transpired in Liberty's crown. Alfred’s president looked at them for a few seconds too long, but surely he knew the way nation representatives intermingled anyways. There were so few nations who were women that it was laughable. Almost that is.

            They stood next to each other on the back of the boat once again. Francis had an arm wrapped around Alfred’s waist and Alfred had an arm slung over Francis’ shoulders.

            If anyone looked their way, they would appear to be two old friends speaking amiably. Alfred was smiling and laughing as Francis appeared to be telling a joke. Alfred replied back which made Francis laugh in turn.

            Little would anyone know Francis was pitching his idea to Alfred who was readily agreeing to sending a Christmas gift and letter to Britain. Or that they were itching to get to Alfred's home to enjoy themselves. Not with a game of cards or a catch up chat either.

            Something else entirely.

            -

            When Alfred woke up the day after Francis arrived, in the early morning, he was confused, even if only for a few moments while everything clicked into place.

            Francis was pressed up against his side, one of his legs thrown over Alfred's with Alfred's arm tucked under Francis as the man used Alfred's chest as a pillow. He was warm and Alfred felt more relaxed and comfortable than he had in months. There were no painful twinges in his legs and while he felt sticky, he was completely at ease with the situation.

            He looked down to find Francis’ cheek resting on his pectoral eyelashes fluttering while he slept. Light crept in from one of the windows making his hair and skin glow. He was glowing. He was beautiful. If Alfred was an artist, he would paint a wall mural of this very sight. If he were a poet, he would write verse after verse about Francis. Francis’ smile, Francis’ laugh, Francis’ cheekbones, Francis’ hair. Everything. Everything about Francis.

            If Alfred could wake up to this every day, he would be the happiest man alive.

            Francis shifted in his sleep, smiling as he seemed to cuddle into Alfred more. Alfred found himself moving to make that easier, resting his face against the top of Francis’ head.

            Francis wasn't waking up yet and Alfred did not want to risk waking him up if he moved out of bed. Besides, he had off of work while Francis was here. It was better to relax and sleep while he could.

            He had no doubt that Francis would keep to his word about teaching Alfred how to make love. Have sex. However you wanted to word it.

            Alfred sighed at that thought, cuddling further into his and Francis’ embrace as he closed his eyes. He was warm. He was safe. He was happy.

            In his last moments of consciousness, he realized something else. Something more alarming than the fleeting moments of longing and appreciation he had felt. After the smiles and hugs and kisses and sex and now this utter domestic awakening, he realized what had been bubbling in his gut the previous day. The previous months. The previous years.

            He was in love with Francis Bonnefoy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a prequel to Showing Political Favoritism, as myself and an anonymous reviewer expressed the idea of exploring this universe more. So, I wrote about Alfred and Francis' relationship, from the very beginning in 1886 to the 21st century. I am trying to keep it historically accurate as possible and do keep in mind that history/politics is not the main focus in this story, so things will be glossed over in favor of focusing only on their developing relationship. It can be read stand alone to the other piece and vice versa but I will probably put them together in a series for the heck of it.
> 
> There will be about 4 to 5 chapters depending on how the final chapter goes and, in turn, if I decide to do an epilogue of a sorts.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed reading, comments/kudos are always appreciated!


	2. Mutual Devotion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Personifications didn’t fall in love, they didn’t. They didn’t.
> 
> But he was.

           Months after France's departure, Alfred couldn't get him off of his mind. It was stupid. It was childish. He knew that.

        Both he and Francis had their own lives and their own countries. Countries that were going to remain independent from one another. Alfred was only dreaming, being naïve, to think two weeks was anything to France. The man was well over a thousand years old, closer to two millennia than one. Two weeks were a blink of the eye to him. Alfred was a _baby_ to him.

        What did it matter?

        What did it matter if he had smiled and kissed Alfred in those two weeks? If he had carefully led Alfred through the means of love, of sex, of desire. Had cradled Alfred's head when he lavished Francis with attentions. Had trailed hands gently over scars with praise bubbling past his lips against Alfred's tan skin. Had taught Alfred what he knew with all of the loving care one would give a spouse. A lover. Someone to be cherished and remembered always.

        What did it matter if nothing would come of it?

        He sat at his desk in the White House with these thoughts twirling in his head once again, trying to ignore the pain running up from his feet. He had paperwork to finish and reports to write. Nothing was coming to him though.

        He looked up from his desk when a knock sounded on the door. He plastered a smile on his face before calling whoever had knocked in.

        “Good morning Mister America. I have your coffee and the paper, if you want to take a break for breakfast. There is some mail addressed to you as well,” the man placed a tray on his desk as he spoke, standing by when America did not respond right away.

        “Yes. Thank you,” America reached over to grab papers he had already signed and approved. He quickly put wax over the final one before sealing it with his stamp.

        He shifted to stand up, handing them over to the staff member.

        “The top two are for the Secretary of Treasury, the one with the double stamp is for the Secretary of State, and the rest are for the president and vice president. Could you deliver them for me? I can give you access permissions if that will be a problem,” he rambled on coming to a stop when he realized that.

        “Of course Mister America. I can do so right away, is there anything else you will need?” he tucked the papers under his arm, clearly ready if he was needed.

       “No, that'll be all. Dismissed,” he sat back down without looking at the human again, already reaching for his mail before he drank anything. The steam coming from his coffee was inviting, but government matters were much more important. In theory.

        Most of them were from different congressmen. There was one from the British government, which he put aside to be read later, and one was from the Italian government, which he put on top of the British one.

        The only letter that got his attention was an envelope with elegant script. It was made out to his human name with no extra titles from F. Bonnefoy. Francis had written to him.

        He sat back in his chair, holding the letter loosely between his fingers. Why would Francis have written him a letter? Was there something he did not want to say in person?

        Alfred broke the wax seal with a letter opener, unfolding the letter inside to read it. Heat rose to his cheeks as he read, Francis’ words making his veins strum.

        He stood up, placing the letter face down on his desk, and began to pace. He scratched the back of his neck while chewing on one of his thumb nails. How was he supposed to respond to that? To any of it?

        But he paused, looking at the letter with a determination. He was not an artist or poet, no, but he had captured Francis’ attentions and it had to mean something. He sat down and got out a piece of paper before dipping his pen into a well. He began to write a response back. He would show Francis he was worth it.

        He would prove how well the other had taught him, truly.

        -

_19_ _th_ _of January, 1887_

_My Dearest Alfred,_

_I suppose this letter must be a surprise, of some degree, for you. I must confess, it is for me as well. I did not imagine myself only weeks after our farewells in your bustling city writing a letter of this type to you. I imagine it will even take me a few weeks more to have the courage to send such a thing, for we both know what road this could lead to and I know it too well to walk down it again. At least, not alone._

_For many nights now I have been yearning for your company, whether it is in my bed in Bourg-en-Bresse, where we may forget our roles in modern day society and laze about in perfect bliss without the need of political conduct, or in Paris where I may show you my wonderful city as you have already shown me New York. As your city has changed since the time before our last meeting, as has mine, and I can only imagine what wonderful things I would be able to show you if you would allow me the pleasure someday. Well, if your bosses would allow it, that is._

_I wish to see your smile and hear your laughter once again, even if only for a few seconds. Your flushed face beneath my body is an equally grand sight to see, one I have pictured night after night, day after day, causing more trouble than it is worth. Fantasies and my own hand cannot compare to the real thing. How I want to feel your skin beneath my fingers and your lips pressed against my own, how I want to bring you to bed and never allow you to leave until we are both fatigued and covered in marks showing our true devotion, how I want the ocean’s expanse to shrink so we may be together once again._

_I could go on, but I feel as though I may have already stepped across a line I should never have dared to stray from. I do hope you can forgive an old soul for such a thing if that is indeed the case, but something tells me it is not._

_I long for the day I may hear your cries of need once again. Until then, remember, that I am thinking of you. Always._

_Sincerely, with the utmost dedication,_

_Francis Bonnefoy_

        -

_March 8_ _th_ _, 1887_

_Francis,_

_I cannot think of a title that befits you such as the one you gave to me in your letter I received today. Seeing is how it only takes a little more than two weeks for a letter from Paris to reach D.C. you clearly must have put off sending it, as you expressed, for quite a time. I cannot say I would not do the same if I was the one to initiate such a thing, but your writing has given me the confidence to write my own response as soon as possible._

_Dare I say it, I find myself in a similar situation, although not entirely alike to your own. Work often keeps me busy, as it must for you, so I do hope that you are able to continue on and in good health despite our absences away from each other. It is an unfortunate thing that we are not able to see each other more often; however, I do have full belief in human innovation. Perhaps by this time a few decades from now it will only take a few days to cross that Atlantic and not a few weeks, to which I will be waiting for such a moment with baited breath._

_I too wish to be in your company again. Your kisses and perfume have left me dazzled in such a way that I am afraid I will never recover. Waking up with you next to me filled me with such joy it was as though all that ailed me, that had done me wrong, was gone to be replaced with your happiness and smiles. The first morning we awoke together, I had actually woken up a few hours prior to see you soundly asleep against me. It was a sight I wish I could capture for all of my life, as long or short as it may be._

_Perhaps I will be able to ask my next president if a ‘political entourage’ to France would be a respectable idea. Having at least one strong ally in Europe cannot be a bad thing and I am sure there will not be any reason for them to refuse. And if they do, I can always wait for the next one. I would love to see all you have to offer, both outside and inside of the bedroom. Thoughts of the latter make me desire you even more, for your experience and expertise constantly leave me breathless. It makes me a bit jealous to think of the others who must have lain with you in order for you to achieve such skill. I am the one in your thoughts and the one in your bed now, so I suppose to do not have much to complain about in that respect._

_You have not ‘stepped across a line,’ as you have put in your letter. I understand the line and situation of which you have spoken of. The question we need to answer is what are we going to be? After only one encounter after practically one hundred years and one letter exchanged, is there really a label to identify us beyond old friends? Beyond a mentor and young boy? This has been the case, and relationship, in both of our recent meetings in my life. It is hard to say what we are to call ourselves at this point, so perhaps we should leave it at that._

_The title of lovers seems a bit too overdone anyways, do you not agree?_

_With adoration and acute longing,_

_Alfred F. Jones_

        -

        And so the letters continued, year after year, with banter and teases and news written in every page. Alfred looked forward to receiving letters and returning to D.C. to pick them up if they arrived in his absence. Francis did as well, even as tensions rose in Europe with the turn of the 20th century.

        He could recall writing to Alfred about the subject, laminating over the fact this could set back any plans they might make. First he made nice with Russia, and then with Britain, as Francis’ fears came to life as Germany became stronger.

        Despite that fact, his letters with Alfred made it all the more bearable. No one had caught on yet, despite the fact letters were often intercepted and never received. Luck had smiled upon him so far and he had hoped it would continue to do so.

        Crisis after crisis, war after war, there was no end in sight.

_‘My dear, I fear as though I will drown in the stress and rising animosity in Europe. I wish to return to your arms where we may rest together along your eastern coast.’_

        Alfred could do nothing, Francis knew this. He wished there was some way for something to happen. He wished for the air to fizzle, for the anger to snap. For there to be an end to the suffocating game the continent and beyond had fallen into.

_‘Francis, I wish for your well rest and happiness to return. Europe has been through much. You will get past this and we may see each other once again.’_

        The day Francis was taken out of his office by members of the guard, the day he was taken to Raymond Poincare who stood in silence for what felt like hours, the day the newspaper was put in front of his face, is when it all shattered.

        The anger had snapped.

_‘Murder of Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his Wife.’_

        The anger had snapped much too late in the game.

        -

_1_ _st_ _of August, 1914_

_Alfred,_

_This shall be brief, as I am to be deployed out of Paris at a moment’s notice. I have no doubt the news has already spread about the assassination, war, and everything else in between. What was brewing in Europe was much more than we could handle and now, faced with war, there is no chance to rewind and take back what has been done._

_My people are hoping for a quick and easy fight that will be over by Christmas, but I know better. Us personifications always do. I know this is not your fight, and I do not want it to be. Your wishes for my safety and wellness will get me through this fight, one way or another._

_Stay vigilant and safe my dear._

_Yours,_

_Francis Bonnefoy_

        -

_9_ _th_ _of November, 1914_

_My Dear Alfred,_

_From the way things are looking, we will not be home for Christmas. For once, I wished my assumption was wrong. I fear I will not be able to write often, but it is something to do when the shooting pauses, to keep my mind off of the children who are dying._

_This will be something that will go down in history, mark my words._

_Thinking of you,_

_Francis Bonnefoy_

        -

_25_ _th_ _of April, 1915_

_Alfred,_

_I suppose this is a belated happy new year. I hope you are well on your side of the ocean. I assume you are already up to date regarding the U-boat incidents with the Harpalyce and the SS Falaba. I want to extend my condolences for the second occurrence more so than the first._

_I am back in Paris where I am receiving medical care for what they are calling ‘Trench Foot,’ a terrible thing that is caused by the horrible conditions the trenches are in. Many men have had to get their feet and part of their legs cut off before being sent home. They are reluctant to do so to me, despite the fact it will grow back faster than it can heal, but I will get my way eventually._

_Do try to be careful if you decide to give supplies to Britain. It would be idiotic to be dragged into a war because Germany is throwing a temper tantrum in the sea and English Channel._

_It worries me you are not responding, but I am sure you are busy, and who knows. Perhaps you have and it has been intercepted, or mine have been, this whole time. Either way, even now my soul longs for yours._

_Best regards,_

_Francis Bonnefoy_

        -

_19_ _th_ _of July, 1915_

_Alfred,_

_I have heard Arthur’s bemoaning over the RMS Lusitania; I cannot imagine how you must have taken it. Some of your people reacted violently to such a thing, which I understand, while your president remains firm on not intervening, on remaining neutral. I hope you do so Alfred, this war is no place for a bright soul such as yourself._

_I know you have experienced war Alfred, as have I. But this is no war. This is a massacre. I beg of you to stay as far away from it as possible. Please._

_Well wishes,_

_Francis Bonnefoy_

        -

_4_ _th_ _of December, 1915_

_Dearest,_

_I have never wanted something to be over more so than this in my entire long life. I would rather go through the Crusades again than deal with this. I would rather experience the Reign of Terror twenty times over if it would put an end to this madness. That is all this is. Madness. Absolute madness._

_Machine guns are absolute monstrosities. Poison gas even more so. I was at Ypres in April. I was. I did not mention it before but that is why I was able to write. My lungs had to recover for months. My body is slowly breaking down, unable to heal as fast during wartime with so many people dying._

_My children are dying. Arthur’s children are dying. Dying._

_There is so much death. I only wish for it to stop. Is that too much to ask? Is it?_

_I hear it, feel it, all of the time. I wish to comfort my children, to hold them, to tell them everything will be all right. I know that is not the case and so do they. I can feel Paris weaken and dim day in and day out; the city of lights, as proudly as it proclaims, will not shine ever again if this does not end. Soon._

_I see no end in sight; I feel no end in sight._

_I should have done something, said something, before all of this happened. I should have. Prussia groomed Germany to be this killing machine. Gilbert made Ludwig this way. I should have intervened. I should have._

_If I am killed for good, it is the wrath of God for not stopping such a monster._

_Until next letter,_

_Francis Bonnefoy_

        -

_1_ _st_ _of May, 1916_

_Arthur had to take his leave due to a rebellion in Ireland. He has left Canada in charge of his men, and already the boy has changed. I remember when he was small, when you both were, so innocent to the world across the sea. How I wish I could shelter him now from this. His children are dying too, as are many of Britain’s dominions’ and colonies’ children._

_Japan has apparently been aiding Britain in the pacific with German holdings in the different islands and with China. He will have his own motives, I am sure, but for now it is a welcome help. So many things are happening, but the memories of us together sometimes get me through the bullet filled nights._

_Where are you? Are you faring well? I wish you would write._

_I miss you. ~~I lo~~_

_Kisses,_

_Francis Bonnefoy_

        -

_21_ _st_ _of November, 1916_

_The battle at Somme was something I am unable to describe. Britain is still unresponsive. He won’t move, won’t eat, and won’t sleep. He was found cradling one of his men, a boy of eighteen._

_We may have to send him away to recover. His commander is in such a tizzy._

_I have grown numb to so much of it, but seeing him like this; it is a soul wrenching sight. I would never wish such a thing upon Arthur, despite our past conflicts._

_Nonetheless, congratulations on Wilson winning the election again. I hope that man will keep you away from here, far, far away. Visit Paris when the war is over Alfred, then I shall welcome you with open arms._

_Stay safe, dearest,_

_Francis_

        -

_30_ _th_ _of March, 1917_

_America,_

_Do not let it get to you. You know exactly what I am talking about. Protect your border if you must, but Germany cannot support such a thing with the way things are going. They will not help Mexico. Do not be rash._

_Do not declare war. Do not come here. Stay where it is safe._

_Please._

_Alfred, please._

~~_I will not lose you to this war too._~~

_Please,_

_~~Francis Bonne~~ France_

        -

_May 10_ _th_ _, 1917_

_Francis,_

_I am sorry for not replying sooner. I am so, so sorry. I will never be able to apologize more. I have been receiving your letters and reading them and crying over them, for I fear for your safety every day. I wish I could have been there with you from the beginning. Dear Heavens above, I am glad you are still alive. I am glad you are able to write. I cannot express my true feelings of the matter._

_By now you know President Wilson has declared war on Germany after everything that has occurred. There was nothing I could do to stop it, even if I wanted to. At this point, I do not. I have read every paper regarding this war and have overseen every report._

_The reason I did not respond sooner was my government’s fear of me trying to run off again. I tried to cross into Canada and join the war effort years ago now, but I was caught before I could do so and my government was absolutely furious. They would check every piece of mail I would send out, every telegram as well, in fear that I would try to slip away once again. I could not express my feelings without being found out. Now it has been lifted as I am going to be leaving Paris with General John Pershing within the end of the month._

_I should have pushed for this war more, but Wilson did not want to do such a thing without reason, and I could not tell him my true intentions of wishing to see you alive and well as you have said in your letters. As well as you can be during such an event._

_A Great War, called that for its size and not its goodness for mankind._

_I will see you soon. I know you do not want me to. I know you want me to stay away. I know. You may hate me after this if you’d like. I do not care. I will be there, I will be there and I will protect you and Matthew and even Arthur if that is what it takes for this war to end._

_I will see you soon._

~~_I will rescue you no matter what. I will I swear to God I will. No matter what it takes, I_~~

_I will see you, in Paris. May the city of lights come aglow again, ~~if not then~~_

_My heart,_

_Alfred F. Jones_

        **-1917, Paris-**

        France stood in the doorway of Britain’s quarters, watching as the man washed his face for the upcoming arrivals. The Americans were set to reach Paris that day. Alfred would be there with them.

        Francis told no one of the letter.

        He had woken up hours beforehand, legs aching, hair sticking up at all angles. He loathed ever cutting it, but it needed to be short. I needed to be. He made mistakes enough as it was without having his hair fuck something up if it got in his eyes or caught on something or was grabbed by someone. It curled readily in the summer and his neck froze in the winter, but it could be worse.

        Everything could be worse. He kept telling himself that. That is how they would get through this.

        “Are you even listening to me?”

        Francis snapped out of his thoughts to find Britain in front of him, clearly waiting to be let into the hallway. He stepped aside to allow the other to pass. He did so with a soft huff, boots clicking against the floor as he walked towards the stairs.

        “You had better not act so out of mind when the others arrive. It reflects poorly on your mental state and you already look as though you were crushed by tanks after coming out of a horse’s ass,” Arthur griped at him, pulling on his gloves as they descended towards the ground floor of what was dubbed HQ by the higher ups within the government.

        “Thank you for the compliments, I truthfully feel as though my spirits have been lifted in these trying times.”

        “Do not start on me now, Bonnefoy. I am merely saying it as it is. Space out and act loopy on your own time, not when the Americans are present. They could aid us in the final end of this bloody fucking war, and if you mess it up with them I can guarantee that I will never forgive you. Ever,” he stopped, looking back up at Francis with a sharp expression. A haggard one. “Understood?”

        “If you were any clearer you would be able to run across no man’s land and murder Germany with your bare hands,” he passed by Arthur then, ignoring his screaming feet and calves. “Come on, you do not want to be late, do you?”

        They walked in silence after that, the hallways practically echoing the sentiment. It would be another hour before the Americans arrived. Until then, they stood in silence as humans of high rank filed in.

        Joseph Joffre was the only general present to greet the American personification’s division. They had split off from John Pershing when arriving in the country. They had only brought 15 men to accompany Alfred Jones.

        Canada and New Zealand came in together, standing near Arthur’s side. Matthew had the same look on him that he had possessed since Vimy Ridge, since he had come face to face with the German personification.

_‘He looked so sure of himself at first. Then I broke his nose and pumped him full of bullets. He did not leave with the same air. He will fear me; I made sure of it, sir.’_

        Sir. Matthew only called Arthur sir in front of humans. They had been in private, Francis stitching up Matthew’s unattended wounds in silence. He had changed. He was changing. The only thing that had brought a spark to his eyes since then was when New Zealand finally arrived.

        _Sir._

        “I wish to say that it is an honor to have you in our city, but both France and I can agree that it is not. We only wish you a safe trip home when the time comes,” Joffre spoke first, Francis standing beside him in full uniform.

        “Thank you,” a human spoke, rank highest of the bunch.

        He stepped aside when America, Alfred, finally decided to step out of line. He wasn’t wearing a uniform, well; he wasn’t wearing the correct one. He looked as though he had been in a heated argument, for the anger hadn’t left his eyes.

        “I myself wish that this did not have to happen. The fact this war, one to end all others, has escalated this far fills me with such dread. I can only imagine how you are all feeling,” he paused, eyes sweeping the room. “But, we will fight. We will fight for our allies. We will fight for a promise long overdue to our French compatriots. The last thing I can say is simply; Lafayette, we are here.”

        At that final wording the humans dispersed to where they would be staying, Joffre nodding to France before leaving the room. In a matter of minutes, only the personifications remained.

        Canada moved first. He was crying. _He was crying._

        Matthew and Alfred clung to each other, their grip tight. When they pulled back, Alfred only nodded with an unreadable smile, hand patting Matthew on the shoulder.

        “Sent Germany packing, right?”

        Canada nodded.

        “Yes. Yes I did.”

        “Good. Good.”

        No one else moved. Alfred looked over to the others, sorrow in his eyes.

        “I will not be fighting. My president doesn’t want me to fight. I am trained in the medical field well enough. I will be helping out at the field hospitals,” his fists clenched. “I will not be fighting.”

        Arthur snorted, lips down turning, “Why bother coming here if you cannot fight? Why take up a woman’s position, unless you are a doctor, in which case you are downplaying your achievements.”

        “Because there are other ways to help during wartime, Britain,” it was spoken lowly, Alfred’s expression matching Arthur’s.

        France looked between the two, noting the rising tension. He sighed, making sure to make his limp more prominent as he took a step to Alfred before faltering.

        “If that is the case, would you be willing to take a look at my injuries? They have been hurting me all morning and I did not want to call in personnel who could be used elsewhere.”

        Alfred looked to Francis. His eyes didn’t soften, and he didn’t get a dreamy look on his face. Good. He understood.

        “Of course, seeing as how you respect my president’s decision and my abilities, I would be happy to. Do you have the needed supplies somewhere close by?” he finished off with a final pat on Canada’s shoulder, walking towards Francis without sparing Britain a glance.

        “What is that supposed to mean?”

        “It means, I have not seen you in one hundred years, and in that time you have not changed. You are still a sexist asshole, among other things, who doesn’t know where his place is. My choices are my own; you are not my family anymore, Kirkland,” Alfred gave him a flat look. “Excuse me for wanting to help Europe by helping myself, such as you do with all of your colonies. If you truthfully do not like my practice and the reason for which I also joined my commander in Paris, I will gladly let you bleed out and die if you get injured while in battle, seeing as how you cannot be bothered with a supposed woman’s job. You’d heal on your own eventually anyways.”

        New Zealand was silent throughout all of this, looking to Canada for how he should react. Canada subtly shook his head as Britain’s face reddened.

        “It was wonderful to see you Canada, I hope the next time we meet it will be under better circumstances. Show me to the medical supplies, if you would please,” heat last turned back to France, who did so without uttering a word.

        They could hear Britain beginning to rant as they walked down a corridor to the stairs. France led Alfred up to flights, to the right towards personification quarters, and finally to his own room which was sparsely furnished. The door closed with a click.

        Francis was enveloped in warm arms. He wrapped his own tightly around Alfred’s middle letting out a sigh of relief.

        “Sorry I disregarded your warnings, but my people have had enough. So have I,” he pulled back, holding Francis’ face with gentle hands.

        If eyes were the way to the soul, Alfred’s was filled with love and adoration for those he held close. Francis hoped to be on the receiving end of such looks for years to come. He never wanted to be shut out, not like Britain was.

      “You are an idiot,” Francis sounded choked up, truly choked up. “An absolute idiot.”

        “I know, I know. I’m sorry,” but Alfred did too.

        They stood together for what felt like days. Alfred gave Francis a teary smile as he brushed his fingers through Francis’ hair.

        “You cut it; things always seem to change when we meet.”

        “I had to, got in the way too many times to count,” he said nothing else on the subject. He didn’t want to talk about the war, not here, not now. “You have gotten taller.”

        Alfred beamed at that. “Yeah, I did. I’m surprised you noticed, we are wearing heeled boots after all.”

        “Hardly, these are barely anything. I remember during some of my court days how I would feel five or six centimeters taller.”

        “Eww, metric system.”

        “Hush.”

        Their circumstances were far from the best, but it was something. It was better than nothing. It could have been worse.

        “Do you need me to look at your injuries though? Or were you getting us out of the room so we could talk?” Alfred finally asked, stepping back out of Francis’ personal space.

        “It is a bit of both. My feet have been killing me all day and I do not want to have to cut them off and wait for them to grow back again,” he sat down on his bed, more like a cot than anything else, and began to take off his boots.

        Alfred crouched down to help, a look on concentration on his face. “Have you considered using a wheelchair while you are in Paris? I know you won’t be able to use it too often because of the stairs, but perhaps you should have one standing by for you to use while you are on the main floor? Not using them generally will help them heal faster.”

        France blinked, looking down at Alfred as he examined the eroding skin after the bandages were unwrapped. He didn’t poke or prod the loose skin, he let his fingers run over it with minimal pressure to not hurt the other.

        “I could see what could be done about that, if you want,” Alfred continued, finally putting the foot down. “Where are your spare bandages?”

        “They are downstairs in the medical station, if you go back the way we came and go to the left, the way Joffre left after you arrived, it will be three doorways down on your right,” Francis rattled off the instructions as Alfred stood up.

        “Okay, I’ll go grab some. Don’t move I’ll be back soon.”

        He jogged out of the room before Francis could reply. He sighed, laying back on his bed in wait. His heart was thundering away in his chest. This hadn’t happened in a long time. A long, long time.

        What was he supposed to do? What was he supposed to say? He was acting as though he hadn’t been faced with this problem before, but he had, and it had ended terribly. Did Alfred realize what was happening? They had brushed around the subject for years, pushing it to the side and ignoring it.

        Was he falling in love once again?

        He knew the answer, he did. But he didn’t want to face such a reality. He didn’t want to fall. He didn’t want to be hurt. He didn’t want Alfred to be hurt.

        Personifications didn’t fall in love, they didn’t. _They didn’t._

        But he was.

        He was in love with Alfred Jones.

        -

_September 1_ _st_ _, 1919_

_Francis,_

_I am sorry for leaving so abruptly after the signing of the treaty, and I am sorry for not saying goodbye. I was angry and I did not have the right to be. It was as you said; it was never even my war in the first place. I simply wanted you to understand that what your government was pushing for would only have led to a road filled with hatred and revenge._

_I spoke with him. With Germany. With Ludwig. I know I wasn’t supposed to, I know I was ordered not to by you and by Britain and by my people, but I had to. He’s younger than me Francis, and he is already being blamed for everything that happened over the past couple of years. He is scared and he is soon to be alone. While my feelings appear to reflect sympathy, please know that is not my intention. My intention of mentioning this to you is the fact that I know France is angry and hurt, but I also know Francis Bonnefoy who is a caring and gentle person._

_An act of kindness today might not lead to a thank you today, but to a thank you tomorrow._

_I suppose that is all I have to say on the matter, all I can say. In the end, the decision comes from you and from your government. I hope you make the right one, today and the days to come._

_I wish I could have stayed to see your fine city, but Wilson insisted I came home immediately. Paris is once again aglow, I am sure, and it shall be that way until the end of our days. That is my hope, as I am sure it is yours._

~~_I wanted to ask_~~

_Do you remember in the first letter you sent me in 1887? You spoke of many things, many things that make my ears pink simply contemplating. If it is not too late, I would love to visit Bourg-en-Bresse. Getting away from society is exactly what we both need, if you are willing._

_I am much too willing to fall back in bed with you, where we may spend many nights and mornings together as one. I am always happy to be in your bed Francis, I am always happy to be in your company. I am. Make no mistake of that, but it somehow alarms me how easily we managed to come together. ~~I think I~~_

_A year ago, when you asked me in the trenches under heavy fire, if it was worth coming to France at a time of war, I could not give you an answer. I did not have one, and I do not have a solid one now. Perhaps I am going insane. The only thing I can think of is that no matter where you are, no matter where you will go, if you would have me in your company, it would make me the happiest man on this planet._

_I understand if you do not respond and I understand if you never wish to see me again. I hope you will be able to forgive me after Versailles. I hope we will be able to see eye to eye once more._

_With respect and devotion,_

_Alfred F. Jones_

        -

_2_ _nd_ _of July, 1924_

_Dearest,_

_Where do I begin? I am already five years late in the writing of this letter. Day in and day out I have been going place to place in order to reconstruct my country. The scars are healing. My hair is growing back._

_The letter you sent to me is still in my office alongside all of the others you have sent over the years. I understood what you were trying to say and while my heart still lurches thinking of what transpired only a short while ago, I have tried my best. Ludwig is not an inherently bad person. I can see that now._

_I only wish things did not have to happen the way they did._

_I am not angry with you in any shape or form so I apologize if that is what you thought when year after year I chose not to reply to your heartfelt message. We must do what our bosses tell us, such is the life of a personification._

_You may come over anytime, my doors are open to you always, as are my sheets I did so miss in 1918. As did you, I presume._

_Best wishes,_

_Francis Bonnefoy_

        -

_July 30_ _th_ _, 1924_

_Francis,_

_I am glad to hear you are doing well. Things have been changing so rapidly in my country, as I am sure they have in yours, and I am finding it hard to keep up. Is this how you Europeans feel sometimes? If so, sorry I could never sympathize before._

_I would love to visit but I am afraid it will have to be at a much later date. I do not know if you are in relative contact with Britain, but he has done a good deed for a new friend of mine. The Lithuanian personification, Toris if you recall, is currently living at my residence and plans to return home sometime in the 1930’s, ~~political standings upholding.~~_

_Perhaps when he returns to Europe, I will go as far as the British continent with him before going across the channel to you. I know it is a long wait for me, but they say absence makes the heart grow fonder. Maybe it will make the sex better too!_

_Until then, I can reread your letters you have sent me in the past. While we both agree they will never compare to the true thing, it is better than nothing, correct? You truly have a way with words that constantly leaves me hot and bothered._

_I did miss them in 1918, as I miss them now. However, the sheets hardly matter as much as the person who lies with me in them._

~~_I hope that_~~

_Until next letter,_

_Alfred F. Jones_

        -

_18_ _th_ _of August, 1924_

_Alfred,_

_While it is a shame you cannot visit so soon I completely understand. I have only met with Lithuania a few times in my life and from what I do know, spending some time with you will do him some good._

_This letter will be brief, but I extend you happiness and good health all of the same. I will work on a new erotic bit for the next letter I will send you. I would not wish for you to get bored._

_Kisses,_

_F. Bonnefoy_

**-1932, Berlin-**

        “Ten years ago I would have listened to you; I did listen to you actually, but not now.”

        America frowned at Germany from across the room, his eyebrows dipping down as the other personification continued to not face him. Germany crouched down to tie his boots, hands mechanical and jerky as he was stared down by the other country.

        Ludwig had lost an inch or two off of his height since he lost a part of his land in the aftermath of the Versailles Treaty. Both men in the room knew it had been unfair. Alfred had tried to help Ludwig when he could, with small gestures.

        He wanted none of it now, not after America had made it worse after everything was finally starting to get better.

        “Germany, Ludwig, do not do this. You will regret it and you know it,” he tried to reason with the other, moving from his place in the doorway.

        “I have no idea what you are talking about.”

        “Yes you do,” America finally hissed out.

        He grabbed up Ludwig’s copy of the first volume of _Mein Kampf_ , the spine riddled with lines from use. He waved it in front of the other’s face, their toes practically touching as Alfred shook Ludwig by his shirt.

        “You’ve read this! So have I! If this man begins to rise to power, the consequences will be substantial.”

        Ludwig only scuffed, pushing the other back. Alfred went along with it, if only so Ludwig wouldn’t explode equally as loudly. He fixed his shirt, eyeing Alfred with distrust.

        “My government is based off of your oh so wonderful democratic system, it is not as if it is being overthrown. He is being elected, and I highly doubt he will last even three weeks in office. He is a shady racist man America, but you cannot say some of your past elected officials were not.”

        Alfred froze at that, having no immediate come back.

        “He said he would give my people work, and food, that is what we need. Not some more meddling falsified by gentle words and smiles,” he finished by taking his book back, putting it back on the table it had been poised on. “Now, if you'll excuse me. A meeting with Austria was approved for today and I do not want to miss it.”

        “I will not excuse you Germany,” America’s fists were clenched, shaking with unspent anger and strength. “You need to get in your head that this man is not going to help. I have tried to be nice, and so have the others-”

        “You mean France has been nice, after you told him to,” Germany interrupted him, words flat.

        Alfred faltered.

        “I, how you say, hit the nail on the head? I am not stupid, despite what you may believe,” he looked disgusted, lips dipping further and further downwards. “I saw how France behaved after you had left, and how happy he was once again after he got a letter which came from the United States himself.”

        Alfred could feel his bones grinding.

        “I do not know what you two are playing at, exchanging romantic and clearly erotic messages while a war needed to be cleaned up after, not that you would know that in your safe little bubble across the sea.”

_Shut up, Ludwig._

        “You were clearly too busy chasing after France like a love stricken fool. Personifications are not supposed to do so, of course, but what do two _queers_ know. You do not need to be finalizing a treaty or boarder, you do not need to be doing your duty as a nation, you sick freak.”

_Shut. Up._

        “I wonder what the others would think? If they knew you two were fucking like some-”

        But Ludwig didn’t get to finish. He was slammed up against the wall of his home, Alfred’s whole body shaking with anger. Ludwig’s face paled as Alfred leaned in close, expression darker than Ludwig had seen before.

        “I wonder if you knew about how your dearest brother was raped along the eastern front in 1916? Did you know he enjoyed it? Russia told me all about it when he joined Britain and I for tea. Did you know he and Austria went behind Hungary’s back for years? Did you know he had a relationship with one of his leaders?” he brought a hand up to grab Ludwig’s jaw, forcing him to look Alfred in the eye. “I suppose you didn’t, but at least unlike you I have not been bred and raised by a _demonic faggot_ whose country and people are dying around them as we speak.”

        Ludwig was shaking in fear by the time Alfred was pressed against him, one of his arms beginning to asphyxiate Ludwig due to the fact his feet were beginning to leave the floor. He stood on his toes, eyesight going blurry.

        “I will say this once and only once, what France and I do is none of your business. I would keep your mouth shut and your eyes down because if you try to do anything, I will take back everything I have done to help you and I will watch you _rot_ along with Europe and the rest of the world,” he stood back and let Ludwig drop, dusting off the front of his jacket as if Ludwig had dirtied it. “Understood?”

        Ludwig didn’t respond at first, eyes distant, heart beating erratically as it tried to make up for the lost oxygen, if however brief. He looked up at America with a nod, flinching back when a hand was placed on his head. Alfred ruffled his hair, a bright smile back in place.

        “Good! I would hate for you to be my enemy again Ludwig, it wouldn’t go well for you!”

        With that, Alfred took his leave, humming a tune as if nothing had happened as the door closed with a quiet click. Ludwig didn’t move for a long while, letting his head rest against the wall.

        Only after he was sure America was gone did he allow himself to come undone. With tears rolling down his cheeks, he closed his eyes and sobbed.

        He would be late for the meeting after all.

        -

        Alfred arrived in Paris the next day, the previous day’s events behind him. A little bit of intimidation never hurt anyone in the end anyways. He made his way to where Francis said he would be waiting once again humming as he walked.

        He had a tune stuck in his head, something upbeat, swing like.

        He wished Francis would have been able to visit during the twenties. They would have had a blast dancing together. He could have taught him just as Alfred had taught Lithuania. Lithuania.

        Alfred hoped he was okay.

        “Alfred!”

        America snapped out of his train of thought, looking towards where the yell came from. Francis stood waving a street away, grey suit not suiting him in the slightest. A paper was tucked under his arm, as was another swath of fabric.

        Alfred waved before he jogged over. Francis leaned up to give his cheek a kiss before they embraced, a smile splitting across Alfred’s face.

        “You were right about your hair growing back, it looks better than ever,” he complimented, Francis laughing brightly at the compliment.

        “Thank you, and you are looking well despite the circumstances.”

        “I can’t breathe out my nose, but that’s a constant so it doesn’t bother me anymore.”

        Francis covered his mouth with a hand, shoulders bouncing up and down in barely contained mirth. Francis linked their arms together so they could walk side by side, talk flowing freely between the two.

        By the time they reached Francis’ home, a flat smaller than Alfred would have imagined, they were worn and hungry, as it was almost lunch. Alfred collapsed onto one of Francis’ uncomfortable overly decorated sofas with a sigh of relief after dropping his luggage by the door, blanching when Francis let out a shocked noise and smacked his arm.

        “What!?”

        “You did not take off your shoes, what are you? Some type of mannerless heathen?”

        “Apparently, yes,” Alfred replied, his grin only asking for another smack. Which he got.

        “Take off your shoes,” Francis had toed his own off before he made his way towards his kitchen. “Or you will not be getting lunch.”

        Alfred sat up at that, a look of pure shock on his face, “You’re kidding me!”

        “I do not kid about such things Alfred Jones!” Francis called back.

        Alfred let out a grumble and a few choice words as he took off his shoes and tossed them towards the door. He soon fell back over shifting so his shirt wasn’t pulling uncomfortably at his skin. He could hear Francis moving around in the other room, but he didn’t want to get up.

        He didn’t have to wait long however. Francis came back into the room, struggling to hold two cups and two plates in an orderly fashion without spilling anything. He then veered off to where he had what was probably a dining table, smaller than usual to conserve space.

        Alfred followed him, knowing whatever Francis made it would be good. And it was. Even if it was a sandwich.

       “You never told me why you were in the area, while I do not mind you visiting at all, it is odd to come to Europe without a definite reason these days,” Francis tried to make conversation, taking a sip from his glass of water.

        “I had a meeting with Germany yesterday and I convinced my president to let me stay in France for a few days afterwards. He saw no harm, as long as did put no strain on you, which I hope it does not,” he added as an afterthought.

        “It does not bother me in any way,” he smiled in reassurance, setting his glass down. “Germany though? Britain and I were not notified. At least, I was not.”

        Alfred looked puzzled at that, a frown coming to his face. “I didn’t know that. Hoover said he would take care of notifying your governments.”

        “The man must have forgotten,” Francis was finished with his meal. “Nothing we can do about it now, at least you managed to tell me.”

        “Mhmm,” Alfred agreed, sucking on the tip of his pointer finger where some of the mustard Francis had put on the bread had fallen.

        They said nothing else for a long while, the silence comforting in some way. Alfred jumped when a socked foot brushed against his ankle, the toe running along the outline of the bone there. America met France’s gaze. The man was leaning on one of his hands, a teasing smile that showed teeth easily rested on his face.

        “Mister Bonnefoy, is there something you wish to ask me?” Alfred began, playing along.

        “There might be, but I would feel out of place and demanding if I were to do so. Perhaps you should put forth your own train of thought in light of the situation?”

        The foot trailed up Alfred’s leg, bunching up the pant leg as it went. Goosebumps rose on the flesh, even as the foot went back down slowly as it had gone up.

        “Would you care to retire to the bedroom?” he batted his eyelashes for added effect, shifting so his other foot could nudge against Francis’.

        “Would I?” he asked, tapping a finger against his lips in question. “If you would accompany me, perhaps, I would love to.”

        “But of course, why wouldn’t I?”

        They stood up, leaving the dishes behind. Francis took Alfred by the hand tugging him towards his bedroom where they fell on top of the sheets lip locked. They forgot to close the door. They forgot to close the curtains.

        It was far from their minds.

        “We really need to find some way to see each other more often,” Alfred spoke as he unbuttoned Francis’ shirt. His suit jacket had already been discarded over the side of the bed and his shirt untucked from the high waisted pants.

        “We could push for more trade agreements, or a new treaty,” Francis responded as he took Alfred’s belt off.

        “What could the treaty be about?”

        “I do not know.”

        They continued to talk as they stripped each other, fingers wandering over skin longer than they needed to be there. Alfred grinned when he realized Francis hadn’t worn proper undergarments, foregoing the undershirt as to leave his chest bare under his button up.

        By the time they were naked, Alfred was half hard, watching Francis’ legs tense as he leaned over towards his nightstand trying to find a lubricant of some kind. He sat back up with a partially used jar of petroleum jelly tossing it to Alfred.

        Francis sat back and spread his legs so Alfred could sit in between them, running fingers over Francis’ thighs a he let the jar warm up under one of his thighs. He leaned down, pressing kisses around Francis’ naval, and then dragging them down towards his hardening member which was lavished with swipes of the tongue and kisses. Francis moaned, bringing his hands down to tangle in Alfred’s hair, pushing him down.

        He took in the head, then half of the shaft, and the rest all the way to the hilt without gagging. Francis’ eyes shot open at the action hands tightening into fists.

        “Where did you learn that?” he managed to get out as Alfred came off with a pop, saliva left behind to cool.

        “I practiced. A lot,” he opened the jar finally dipping two fingers in to start.

        “On who?”

        “A few humans, interns actually. Mostly bananas,” he grinned at that, slowly pushing one finger into Francis’ ass with practiced ease.

        Francis could only laugh at the confession, Alfred laughing along in the light atmosphere. One finger became two, then three. Francis laid letting out pants of breath, sighing happily when Alfred shifted to put Francis’ legs over his shoulders.

        He slicked himself up before slowly sliding in, shifting or stopping if he noticed Francis’ discomfort. Alfred’s hands remained firmly on Francis’ hips, their breaths coming out softly together.

        There was so much Alfred wanted to say, to Francis, to himself. Nothing came out. He could only look down at the older with all of the adoration he could convey, finally pulling out and pushing back in with a slow steady pace.

       Francis linked his ankles together urging Alfred to go faster as a few minutes passed. Alfred did, bracing himself against the bed with one hand to go faster, to put more strength behind his thrusts. He leaned down, pressing his face against Francis’ neck, peppering kisses to the scars there. He had said nothing about the ones on his legs, some of them still pink.

        He had to do something.

        Unlike previous times, they were both quiet, for the most part. A moan here and sigh there came mostly from Francis, a smile on his face the whole time until he came with a shudder, Alfred following close behind.

        Francis tried to sit up, but Alfred stopped him. He climbed out of bed and went to Francis’ bathroom, grabbing and wetting a washcloth before he came back to bed. He cleaned Francis off, then himself, complying when Francis tugged him under the covers.

        They didn’t speak for a long time, cuddling together in the afterglow with Alfred pressing kisses to the back of Francis’ neck as Francis tangled their legs together.

        “My president has me go to military training once a year now,” Alfred spoke first, finally letting his and Francis’ hands card together.

        “He does?” Francis asked, quiet. Oh so quiet.

        “Yeah, it’s so if anything happens again I won’t be left on the wayside with no training at all,” Alfred paused, frowning. “That’s why I couldn’t fight in the Great War, you know. I had gone to school for a medical license about a decade and a half before then so I got it reinserted before I came over to Europe, but if I wanted to arrive with Pershing then I couldn’t stay behind to train.”

        “You go to college?”

        Francis felt Alfred smile at that, lips brushing heated skin.

        “Every now and again I go for something. When the war was over, my revolution that is, and New York City was still being used as a pseudo capitol, I went to King’s College for a degree in law. Never did anything with it, but I enjoyed being around my people.”

        Francis shifted and rolled around so he could face Alfred, retangling their legs once he was comfortable.

        “I also have an engineering degree and one in mathematics. I think I want to get one in science too, but there isn’t enough time right now,” he reached up to brush Francis’ hair behind his ear, missing the way Francis’ smile brightened even further.

        “I do not have any degrees from any university. I look a bit old to be attending them and I have always fancied the arts over anything else, which does not really need any official paper saying I can paint or sculpt,” Francis explained. “Some of my artwork is on display in some museums throughout France under pseudonyms.”

        “I bet they are incredible.”

        Francis hummed, eyes closing, “Some of them. A few are too old and they look terrible.”

        “Well, they’re all better than my art, anatomy escapes me so badly. While I can blend paints and shit, if I had to draw a person to save my life, I would die,” he drew out the last word, hoping to get Francis to laugh again. Which he did.

        “You only need to practice.”

        “In this economy?”

        Francis opened his eyes the second the words processed for him. Alfred was trying not to laugh. Francis hit him again.

        “You are terrible,” he rolled back over, letting out a huff.

        Alfred sat up on his elbow, leaning over Francis with a pout at his reaction. Giddiness was clear as day in his eyes, even as Francis pressed his face against one of his pillows to get away from the other.

        Alfred only flopped back down, pulling Francis to his chest so they could spoon.

        “Don’t say that, you love-” but he froze, the words stuck in his throat.

        The playful air disappeared in a single instant, Alfred’s smile dropping off of his face as Francis too went still. They said nothing, Alfred’s heart pounding so loudly he was sure Francis could hear it. What had he done? What had he almost said?

        Francis shifted again, looking over his shoulder at Alfred’s distraught expression. Sorrow was clear as day on his face, and Alfred wished he could take his words back.

        “What are we France?” he finally asked, voice hoarse as he forced the words out.

        Francis didn’t answer, not right away. He took one of Alfred’s hands and gave it a squeeze finally turning back around to bring them close one again. He kissed Alfred’s forehead, then his eyelids and cheeks.

        Expression not changing, he only had one answer.

        “I do not know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I will be trying to update on Fridays until this is complete. Hope you enjoyed this chapter!
> 
> Comments/kudos always appreciated!


	3. Letters Lost

_4_ _th_ _of September, 1939_

_Alfred,_

_I have no doubt that your government will not want to get involved in this mess. I do not blame them. I also have no doubt that once again you will be dragged into this, whether you want to be or not, eventually.  For that, I am sorry. Once again Europe is plunging this world into war and I can only hope it is over with quicker this time. I will not hold my breath on such a notion and you should not either._

_I will keep you in my heart as we march forward to the border, although I do believe my superiors want me to remain in Paris until further notice. Either way, this will be hard and I do dread it._

_Well wishes,_

  _F. Bonnefoy_

-

DATE: 13 JUNE 1940

MR. ALFRED F. JONES, 1600 PENNSYLVANIA AVE. W.D.C. 20500

I AM SORRY -(STOP)- DO NOT WORRY -(STOP)- DO WHAT YOU MUST -(STOP)- I WILL SEE YOU SOON DEAR -(STOP)- THAT I KNOW -(STOP)-

SENT FROM: --- UNKNOWN, UNENTERED

F. BONNEFOY

**-1940, Paris-**

Francis remained silent with his head down as he was marched through his own streets, in his own heart, in his own land, by men who made his body ache. It was a day of defeat, the Germans were marching on Paris, but he knew it would not be forever.

He was forced to a stop then to his knees with a gun pressed between his shoulder blades. Did they know who he was? What he was? They had to know some inkling of his importance, if they had taken him this far out of the way.

Soldiers marched around them without even glancing in Francis’ direction. He could feel his people’s fear; feel them leaving his boarders in droves in hope of getting across the channel. Paris was occupied. France had fallen.

That thought alone made his fists clench, eyes closing tightly as footsteps finally approached him. The gun was removed but he did not move a muscle. Not until the barrel of one was shoved under his chin. Not until his head was tilted upwards to face the sky. Not until he opened his eyes to see Ludwig, Germany, the unstable man who was being driven to the brink of breaking as his own people were murdered.

“I hope you are happy,” France spoke quietly, coolly, jaw tightening as the gun Germany was holding trailed up to his cheek.

It was brought back before hitting Francis across the face, the force enough to push him back onto the cobblestone with a sickening crack. Blood filled his mouth. It was forced open as the gun was jammed inside of it, one of Ludwig’s boots resting firmly on his chest to keep him down.

“I am absolutely delighted France,” he spoke with a bored tone, actions displaying everything but.

France begged himself not to shake. Not to cry. He didn’t dare close his eyes or look away from the other in fear of what he would do, but he was terrified. Truly terrified. The gun was taken out of his mouth and he was wrenched forwards onto his feet, Germany’s free hand on his shoulder with an iron grip.

Once again he was marched through Paris’ streets, knees weak as blood gathered and dripped out of his mouth, leaving crimson droplets behind.

He realized with a sick fascination he was being led back to his own residence. How Germany knew where it was, he didn’t know, but it did not surprise him as much as he thought it would. Armed guards were already along the street and in front of the building, seemingly out of place as the invasion continued everywhere else.

Francis was pushed inside, up the stairs, and into his own home where he was made to sit on his couch at gunpoint. He said nothing else, even as he heard German officers in his office and bedroom, as blood stained the floor and his clothes.

“I know you sent a telegram to Alfred,” Germany spoke calmly, easily, as if they were discussing the weather. Francis stiffened at it, his teeth grinding together. “It was very brief, but heartfelt, was it not?”

France said nothing, flinching when Germany moved forwards. He gripped Francis by the hair, pulling his head back sharply. He let out a hiss of air through clenched teeth.

“I expect you to answer me if I am speaking to you, France,” his other hand went down to caress France’s cheek, leather leaving behind red flakes on France’s skin.

“It was.”

Germany let his hair go, stepping back once again. An officer joined them in the room, handing something over to Germany with a whispered sentence. Germany nodded, gazing out over the space.

“Make sure no sharp objects are here. Remove them, all of them. Knives, forks, scissors, whatever is present. We will remove the mirrors later,” it was a clear order, which was followed through with immediately.

France felt white hot fear pool in his gut when he realized what Germany had. Letters.

The letters from Alfred.

“I remember, in 1918, one late night in a French trench when I saw two people having sex against a trench wall. I could only see part of them of course, German technology could not see through earth and barbed wire,” he spoke evenly, opening the box Francis had stored the letters in slowly. “At first, I thought it was only two humans, a soldier and a nurse, trying to relieve tension and enjoy themselves during a time of ceasefire. But then I realized that I recognized them. Did you know who they were, Francis?”

Francis didn’t want to speak, he didn’t, but he knew what would happen if he didn’t.

“Yes, I do.”

“Of course you do, seeing as how it was yourself and America,” he set the box down, holding the letters in one hand. “I did not think too much of it at first. You two were allies, and having sex is supposed to strengthen ties between allies, supposedly helps them heal if they are hurt. I brushed it off because why would I care about such a thing?”

France swallowed. Germany skimmed over the first letter.

“Then, after the signing of the Versailles Treaty, you were acting irate. With everyone. I got a good brunt of it of course; I was to blame for the war and so when I lost I had to bow to your whims. I had to deliver you your mail at one point when I was still not cleared to go back home. I remember that envelope. The writing on the outside was beautiful, almost artistic, and I believed it to be from an admirer of yours. Yet, to my surprise, it was from Alfred F. Jones, the United States himself.”

The second.

“I suppose he got his penmanship from Britain. But, all of a sudden, after reading that letter, your whole mood brightened. You acted as though all of your problems were fixed; you were even kinder to me, just as Alfred had been when he visited me in secret before he left. That is when I started connecting the dots.”

Another, and another.

“When Alfred confirmed my suspicions when he came to visit me eight years ago, everything clicked into place. It all made sense. Honestly France, you have to know what a terrible idea it all is, especially after Britain, and that human girl who was burned at the stake.”

Germany looked back up at him for the first time since he started telling his ‘story.’ France’s face was pale. His hands were shaking in his lap.

“An act of kindness today might not lead to a thank you today, but to a thank you tomorrow. That is what he said, is it not?” Germany asked, very well knowing the answer.

Francis nodded, his voice lost as his heart thundered up his throat.

“Well, this is my thank you then, after all of the good you have done me. You see, normally I would rape you into submission as to welcome you into the empire, as I did with the others. You are a special case though, a bird of paradise desired by many,” the letters were let go, to flutter to the ground in silence. Francis gazed at them, unseeing.

Noise sounded from outside in the hallway, he was led away before anyone else came inside, dragged by the arm to his bedroom. It had been overturned, armoire empty of clothes, mirror taken from the wall, bed taken apart leaving behind only the mattress.

“Strip.”

The voice was cold. France took a step away, shaking fingers undoing buttons slowly. His shirt fell to the floor, as did his belt, shoes, socks, and pants. He stopped there only for a tsk to sound out, making his hands shake even more.

“Strip France, unless you want me to do it for you.”

His undergarments slid to the floor as well. France stood with his back ramrod straight hands shaking at his sides. Germany walked around him, eyes picking him apart in a way that had not happened in years.

France flinched again when something touched his skin, a measuring tape. He was silent as an apparent tailor took his measurements. When that was finished, he was lead into his bathroom where Germany sat him down on the lip of his bathtub.

His face was shaved, as were his arms and legs. Germany said nothing else throughout the exchange only letting his steely gaze roam over Francis’ body once again as to make sure no hair was left where he didn’t want it.

He was given a robe, which on any other day he would gladly wear, but now it was too short. Too revealing. He put it on without complaint before he was dragged back into his room. Bruises were forming on his arms. He still tasted blood in his mouth.

“It was such a shame when you cut your hair,” Germany finally spoke again, looking over to where bars were being put over Francis’ windows, the bars themselves crossed in such a way that the windows could not be reached and broken. “You will not have to cut it this time.”

Francis’ legs shook.

“There will be a signing of the armistice with my country in a few days, after that you will accompany me and the Führer on a tour of your wonderful city. I can assure you that he will take a liking to you quickly, a blond haired blue eyed beauty such as yourself.”

Francis flinched again when Germany grabbed his jaw, more gently than the last time but still bruising.

“I hope for your sake you know how to apply makeup subtly. It would do wonders for that nose of yours, and for the bruises that are already forming.”

“What are you doing with me?” Francis finally asked, voice shaking.

“I am turning you into what every officer wants for a wife, France. You should be grateful for how well you will be treated. You even get to stay in your own home,” his fingers pressed together. Hurting. Grinding.

“When this is all over with and you are once again cowering in loss, you will regret this Ludwig,” he glared up at the other, a final ditch effort.

He shouldn’t have spoken.

France was backhanded, the slap reverberating throughout the room. He fell back onto the floor, the robe he had been given slipping off of one of his shoulders. Germany pushed him so the back of his head connected with the wooden flooring, a hand crushing, squeezing, his windpipe.

He choked legs kicking out to try and get the other off. A kiss was forced onto him, his bottom lip bitten until blood was drawn, teeth clicking as they met. Germany wasted no time as France’s vision flickered from the loss of oxygen.

Germany finally got off of him and let him go when some of the guards that had been in his flat came into the room, weapons at the ready. Francis coughed as he was practically surrounded, Germany looking down at him with a sneer.

“Come and get me after she has passed out, then she will be fitted for her clothing,” he turned to leave as France was grabbed by two groups of hands, two more going for his legs. Ludwig paused in the doorway, looking over his shoulder. “There is petroleum jelly in the nightstand.”

France watched him leave before letting out a scream, kicking and punching at the humans who tried to push him down. He was outnumbered. He stood no chance.

He could only cry, scream, _sob_ , as he was entered over and over again, letters in the other room burned from existence.

**-1942, London-**

“Arthur, you need to wake up.”

Britain shifted in his sleep, sleep that was long overdue as bombs dropped on London.

“Arthur. The Americans have arrived.”

His body hurt, his whole being hurt. When was it going to end?

“Arthur.”

Britain opened his eyes to a concerned looking Canada, who was standing outside of the car they had used to ride from Britain’s home. He had fallen asleep, sling slipping off of his shoulders.

“Sorry Matthew,” it was all he could say as he stepped out, waving off Matthew’s offered helping hand.

“Scotland and Wales already are inside. New Zealand and Australia will be here in a few hours, they only recently arrived and need some rest,” Canada informed him as they began to walk inside, nodding to officers and other members of the army and air force as they went.

“Good, Northern Ireland has been taken care of?”

“Scotland said he’s at his house up near Elgin with four members of the house staff. He will be out of harm’s way.”

Britain nodded, relieved everything had been taken care of.

“When is America due to arrive?” he asked, as they passed doorway after doorway, going to the briefing room with other officials.

“Any moment now actually,” at the Canada paused, frowning with a sad look in his eyes. “He is going to be hurt this time.”

“He is barely going to be hurt this time,” Arthur added on, motioning to his own injuries and Canada’s. “We both have been in this longer and you know very well he will sustain the least amount of damage.”

“That does not mean he will not be hurt Arthur, especially now since he has military training.”

“Big deal-”

“Do not start now Arthur, please,” but the reply did not come from Canada. It came from America. His people filed in behind him, unaware of what was going on at the front of the room.

Canada and Britain could only stare at Alfred, in full uniform with medals to match. A flight cap was tucked under his arm. The air force, he was a part of the air force.

He looked tired, angry, remorseful, a combination that many people experience during war.

“Has there been any word from mainland Europe from any of the annexed countries?” he asked looking back and forth between the two. He nodded to Scotland and Wales when they walked over, no smile coming to his face for once.

“None that we are aware of,” Britain responded.

America only grimaced with a shuddering exhale of breath. He ran a gloved hand through his hair, cut short for the occasion.

“How are you all faring? Do you need to sit down Arthur?”

At that, Arthur snapped to attention, looking Alfred over with a critical eye. America had not called him Arthur in a long, long time. Not without sarcasm laced into his tone. It was always Britain or Kirkland, angry and filled with venom. Now, it was subdued, caring even.

“How is that any of your concern?” he finally asked. Scotland reached forward to put a hand on Britain’s shoulder to try and calm him down, but faltered when Canada beat him to it.

“Seeing as how once again I am stepping into the European theater, I want to make sure you are faring all right. We are going to be working together and I do not want to push you or your buttons further than they can go,” he said it outright, holding a hand out to Arthur before he continued, “I want this war to be over as much as you do Arthur. What has happened is water under the bridge, the future is where we should be looking.”

Arthur said nothing. He didn’t move. Not at first. Alfred kept his hand out with a hopeful look entering his eyes.

Arthur finally took it, shaking it up and down three times before he let go. Alfred smiled, for the first time since arriving, pulling him into a hug, mindful of his arm that was still in a sling. Arthur went rigid, fists clenching.

It was over as soon as it began, Alfred pulling back with a nod.

“We have a lot of planning to do, especially if we are going to take back Europe from the Nazis. I believe we can do it, no matter how long it takes.”

With that, the meeting began with the personifications and humans taking their seats. Arthur’s officials spoke first, welcoming their new allies before starting on strategies, everyone paying rapt attention to what was being said.

Alfred’s right hand was shoved inside of his pants pocket, pointer finger rubbing the telegram message card like he had been for the past year and a half, ignoring the burning pain from his hip.

-

Time passed.

General Eisenhower arrived in London. The battle at Stalingrad began. Russia came to Britain before being deployed there alongside Estonia. Operation Supercharge began, as did Operation Torch. The Germans surrendered at Stalingrad.

The Germans began to withdraw from Africa. The Germans and Italians surrendered North Africa. Pointblank began. The Allies attacked Italy; they landed in Sicily and bombed Rome. South Italy was captured without a fuss. He said nothing in regards of his brother. Italy surrendered after the Germans evacuated. North Italy was found dead.

The Germans occupied Rome, rescued Mussolini, re-established the fascist government. Feliciano woke up. Feliciano led the Allies into Naples. Italy declared war on Germany.

The Allies gained land. The Germans began to lose. Russia marched on the eastern front, cold winds behind him. Britain and America and Canada and so many others planned and planned down to a T. Ghost armies sprung up. False information was leaked.

China fought a lone enemy on the other side of the world.

D-Day.

_D-Day._

France’s liberation began. The resistance came back with a vengeance. Paris was thrown into turmoil once again. They are, were, will be, close, so close.

Paris was liberated on August 25th, 1944.

The war continued. The Allies pushed forwards east of Paris.

Alfred runs, ran, was running, had been runing and running, clutching at the tattered damaged telegram like a lifeline. He had to find him, he had to. He had to.

_He had to._

-

France didn’t know how long it had been. He had not gotten visits from Germany or Prussia in a time. Not too long of a time, but long enough to be alarming. Perhaps they had finally forgotten him? That had to be the case.

The officers had left. They had left sometime in the middle of the night a few days prior. Francis didn’t dare run of course, the last time he had tried that it had ended badly. Horribly. He would stay put, keep his head down. For all he knew, this was some type of sick test.

He wouldn’t put it past Germany. In the past he might have, but not now. Not ever again.

The skin over his heart itched. It itched and it itched and it itched, but he didn’t touch it. Touching it would make it worse. It could always be worse. He wasn’t burning any more, it wasn’t burning.

He had heard, felt, the arrival of cars. Of soldiers. Of peace.

There was no peace. There would never be peace.

He opened his eyes when there were boots running down the hall in the main corridor. When they kicked down the door to his flat. When they ran through his home, calling his name, his human name. His actual name.

“Francis!”

But he said nothing curling in on himself more, hands shaking. Then, there was light. Actual light. A shadow over him. Breathing.

“Francis?”

He looked up, expecting the worse. But, he froze. He went still. Tears poured from his eyes.

“ _Alfred,_ ” it was whispered, sobbed, said as a prayer.

He was lifted into Alfred’s arms, warmth radiating into his core. Alfred had come. Alfred had come. _Alfred had come._

He was wrapped in something warm, lips pressed against his forehead. He was lifted, carried, taken away. Far away. The sun, he felt the sun, saw the sun. Peace. There was peace.

He was free.

**-Potsdam, 1945-**

France watched in silence as Russia conversed with Stalin. He was itching for a cigarette, fingers tapping against the leg of his pants. America was off with his new president, Harry Truman, and Britain was getting papers in order for the conference to begin.

Germany, among others, was inside of the building being held in cells of a kind. France had not gone to see them yet. He knew Britain had, as had Russia. He wanted to wait. America said he would join him, would help him.

He lifted his hand to run it through his bangs only to stop. Short curls met his fingers not long tresses. He let his hand rest there, fingers bunching the hairs at the roots.

“Francis!” Alfred called out, snapping him out of the trance he had put himself in. He turned to find Alfred walking down the stairs of the building to him, a soft expression on his face.

“Alfred,” he smiled back, the expression not meeting his eyes. They shook hands.

It was all Francis could deal with.

“Truman said we have half an hour before we need to be seated, so it’s now or never,” he explained, pointing behind him.

Francis only nodded, shoving his hands inside of his pockets. They walked side by side, Alfred’s posture remaining relaxed.

Francis did not remember much from his rescue. He could recall leaving what was his prison home and riding on a jeep through Paris and waking up with Alfred holding his hand, with Arthur staring out the window speechless.

He could remember cutting his hair off erratically, sobbing and crying all the while. Cutting the skin off over his heart over and over again only for the triangle to remain. Could remember sobbing into his hands in a bathtub, wanting to drown, wanting to die.

He could remember Alfred’s soothing hands and Alfred’s soothing words and Alfred’s warm jacket.

“Excuse me, sir, are you sure Mister Bonnefoy should be seeing the prisoners?” a guard spoke up as Alfred showed his I.D.

“I am sure, please step aside,” Alfred replied immediately.

They did as told, allowing them both past and through the door to where Germany was being held. Where all of the others were too.

Hungary and Romania sat far away from the Germanic personifications as possible, silent. Both would leave with Russia once the conference was over, as would Prussia. Prussia. Gilbert. He lay unconscious, bandages covering damaged skin.

There were whispers of his dissolution, how it would be the best course of action.

Austria was also silent, only looking at his hands, flinching when Alfred’s shadow fell over him.  Germany was a few feet away, scars bandaged up and eyes dull. He didn’t react to the two newcomers. None of them did.

France said nothing, looking out over the group. His breathing was steady, as was his heart. He felt rage, indescribable rage in his soul, but he did not lift a hand. He did not do anything.

He looked to Alfred and motioned to the door. America faltered, shooting France a look that clearly meant _‘are you sure?’_ France nodded, turning back to Germany and the others. America left without saying a word, closing the door behind him.

“At Yalta, we contemplated killing you,” he began, eyes on Germany. Austria finally looked up, only to flinch again at France’s appearance.

Germany did nothing. He didn’t even blink. He breathed in and out, in and out, that was all.

“But both Russia and I had the same sentiments. Killing you would be the easy way out, having a new German personification who we could not punish for crimes they did not commit and allowing you to die after what you did would be too easy. You deserve everything that is coming to you, everything.”

His voice rose in volume, the loudest it had been in a year. Germany moved back. Finally moved. Finally showed something other than nothingness.

“There was once a point in time where I could say you are not an inherently bad person, that you were simply a young nation who was misguided and did not understand the ways of the world. But you made the same mistake twice, you did exactly what we were trying to prevent and you will live with the consequences.”

He walked closer to Germany, eyes blazing in anger. Germany looked up to meet them. He blinked once, twice. Then he froze.

“But even now, I cannot blame one person for the crimes of many. What you have done is indescribable, you very well may never get anyone’s trust ever again, but you better fucking try. This world is changing and whether you or I like it or not, we are no longer the main players,” he took a hand out of his pocket, nails clipped down to the skin.

He placed a hand on Germany’s shoulder, the man flinching heavily and tensing up, expecting a blow. The others looked on in silence, not knowing what to expect. A tear fell to the floor, then another.

“I forgive you.”

Ludwig’s head snapped up to look at Francis in bewilderment. His hand fell back to his side, the anger left his eyes. He let one final tear fall before turning away.

“Do not make me regret it again.”

With those final words, Francis took his leave, ignoring Ludwig’s gaze as he opened the door and stepped back out into the hallway. America met him with a hand on his shoulder, worry in his gaze.

“Let us get this meeting over with,” he murmured, allowing the door to swing closed with a click.

-

_September 3_ _rd_ _, 1945_

_Francis,_

_I bet the address of this letter is a bit surprising! I am currently in Tokyo, with the Japanese personification, Kiku Honda. I won’t go into too many details but he is in a coma after the bombings, which I am sure you have heard of._

_It’s weird being here after everything. The last time I visited it was two years after the country opened, back in 1855. Sometimes I wish I hadn’t, especially after all of this. I finally got back in contact with China. He was with the communist leader in the interior of China for most of the war, which I guess is not all that surprising. It was that or be captured by the Japanese._

_I should not be here for long. My president wants me back in D.C. as soon as possible before I am supposed to travel to London, then France. I do not know the exact timeline but I’ll be sure to send a telegram if I need to so we can meet up. You’re still on leave, right? That’s why I’m writing to this address._

_I hope you are doing okay, in a sense. I know it will take time to heal but know I am here for you if you need it, okay? We all are Francis._

_I am sending you a little gift too! I hope it stayed with the letter, if not, oops!_

_Sleep easy,_

  _A. F. Jones_

-

DATE: 21 NOVEMBER 1945

MR. ALFRED F. JONES, 1600 PENNSYLVANIA AVE. W.D.C. 20500

I AM STILL IN PARIS UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE -(STOP)- GOVERNMENT DOES NOT WANT ME ALONE -(STOP)- I HAVE MOVED -(STOP)- NEW ADDRESS WILL BE GIVEN IN PERSON -(STOP)- SAY HELLO TO ARTHUR FOR ME -(STOP)- AND THANK YOU FOR THE CHOCOLATE -(STOP)-  

SENT FROM: --- UNKNOWN, UNENTERED

F. BONNEFOY

**-1946, Bourg-en-Bresse-**

Francis woke up in a warm bed in a warm room with many pillows by his head and pajamas riding up on his stomach. The windows were open and if he turned his head to the side he was sure to see outside where hills went on for quite a ways until another building could be seen.

He could hear Alfred somewhere downstairs, most likely the kitchen, moving about. The man had slept in the guestroom for the past month they had been there, not complaining once about the lack of contact. He would go into town every few days to get supplies but otherwise remained happy to train outside before Francis woke up, eat breakfast with him, read books, model for paintings.

Alfred was more of a writer and reader than an actual artist, his artworks bright and unrealistic, which had an appeal of its own, not that Alfred would listen after seeing what Francis could do.

Francis’ hair was growing again. He still clipped his nails and he still could not look at the mark on his chest, but he was making progress. He would sometimes sit next to Alfred while he read, leaning against his side for comfort. Alfred never wrapped an arm around him unless asked.

It was more than Francis ever expected.

Spring was slowly turning to summer and they spent their days lounging and enjoying one another’s company. Alfred constantly got mail and had both mail and telegrams sent out from the post station in town. Francis received no work to do as he recovered, only news from what was occurring in his country, which he could feel.

He would dream often. He would dream of days long past, centuries and centuries prior, when he ran around in frilled court attire without a care, when he flounced and boasted his beauty, his strength, his prowess. Those days had long since ended, replaced with real life horrors of being kissed on the cheek by Hitler and holding back tears as Germany did the same.

He would wake up screaming too often to count. Alfred would be there, at his doorway, reassuring but not entering. He would only come closer if Francis needed him to, otherwise he would stand silently, pity trying not to come to his eyes.

France knew they could not stay here forever, that eventually they would need to leave this comfort and reenter the world separately.

He sat awake late one night in June. The house was pitch dark, as was the outside. Stars twinkled; the moon cast a faint glow in its crescent. Francis heard every step he took, heard his door creak open. He raised a hand to knock at Alfred’s door, but he only stood there doing nothing.

He remembered their last time together, in Paris, before it became a prison. He could remember the way Alfred had been gentle, how he always had been, only giving what Francis wanted. That was all he had done.

Francis and Alfred.

Alfred and Francis.

They looked out for each other, wrote letters to each other, saved each other. Loved each other.

He pushed the door open, holding his breath. Alfred was already sitting up, having heard him all along. His glasses were on the nightstand, shirtless, with sleep filled eyes.

“You have a nightmare?” he asked, patting the spot next to him.

Francis didn’t respond, walking over to Alfred in silence. He stood in front of the other not knowing what to do, not knowing what he would be all right with. He didn’t know himself anymore. He didn’t.

It scared him.

Alfred’s fingers touched his arms, a soft brush of skin on skin. Francis felt his eyes dampen as he collapsed on Alfred’s chest, finally letting out everything he had been feeling. Alfred took it all, rubbing Francis’ back, kissing the top of his head, holding him as though he was made of glass.

“I love you, I love you so much,” Francis sobbed, pressing his face against Alfred’s shoulder. “I know I am not supposed to and I know we could get in trouble, we both do, but I love you so much Alfred Jones.”

He cried long into the night, Alfred holding him until sunrise.

Francis woke up in a warm bed in a warm room with many pillows by his head and pajamas riding up on his stomach. The windows were open and if he turned his head to the side he was sure to see outside where hills went on for quite a ways until another building could be seen.

He did so, only to find another body next to his, skin tan and arms looped around Francis’ middle. The hold was loose and Francis could get up if he wanted to. He felt safe here, safer than he had felt in a long time.

He watched Alfred’s sleeping face for what felt like years. His eyelashes fluttered as he slept, a break in his dark skin where his glasses rested on his nose. He had no five o’clock shadow despite the fact he had not shaved in at least two weeks, suggesting body hair did not grow well for him, even after he physically turned 18.

He realized, as the sun shone into the room, that he had a killer headache and a stuffed nose. He wanted to do something about both of them, but he didn’t want to leave the place he finally felt content in.

Alfred shifted, his hand now resting against Francis’ stomach. He began to slowly wake up, becoming aware of his surroundings as Francis had before. He opened his eyes, bright blue, crystal clear, to look at Francis with all of the love he could muster.

Francis smiled, really smiled, knowing it was going to be okay.

He still had a long way to go, but he would tackle it. Alfred by his side.

“Hey, Francis,” Alfred spoke, leaning in so their foreheads touched.

“Yes?”

He smiled back, “I love you too.”

-

_June 27_ _th_ _, 1948_

_Francis,_

_This one is going to be brief seeing as how I need to get back in the air ASAP. You probably guessed it, but I am in Berlin helping with the airlift at the moment. Ludwig is here too, working on the planes’ maintenance while they are grounded. He is very handy with a wrench._

_I wanted to write to you and see how you are doing. I’ve been reading up on construction and the ERP was passed through the House and Senate, giving money to you and the other Europeans. I hope it helps like we want it to!_

_I am also on speaking terms with Arthur now, in case you weren’t aware. We made up in the early 40’s when I arrived in London and our countries are now forging a ‘special relationship,’ the only thing Britain grumbles about is the fact that (insert British accent here)‘Churchill must be ecstatic.’_

_I don’t know about all of it, it’s weird. They tried to make us have sex and for now, neither of us is for it. Despite the fact he did comment about not having sex back in the 1800’s, as you told me when you visited. It would be weird, seeing as how I saw him as my dad for a solid hundred plus years though. Maybe I should start calling him pops or something during meetings to lighten the mood._

_That’s all I really have to say I guess. Oh! I got your picture by the way. You are looking beautiful as ever. I love your hair in that style. Keep up the progress and best wishes._

_My heart,_

  _A._   _F. Jones_

-

_10_ _th_ _of September, 1948_

_Dearest,_

_I do hope they do not keep you in Berlin until this fiasco is over with. While I know the Soviets won’t be able to do it forever, I do not want you to fall asleep at the controls midair because you keep insisting you do not need sleep despite the fact you do._

_The ERP is doing wonders, thank you. And I did hear about your rekindling friendship with Arthur. The man is going to need all of the friends he can get after all of his colonies and dominions leave him, which is going to happen sooner or later._

_Thank you for the compliments! You always know how to make me feel happy again. I have been wearing a bit of makeup lately and reminding myself it is for me, and it is really working. I feel like I should be writing this stuff down so humans can understand how the mind can work or something. So many soldiers have shellshock._

_Not that I am suggesting wearing makeup will help them or anything, but it is fascinating. Psychology is the study of the brain, right? Maybe I will go to school for it, take after you to keep myself busy._

_Do not overwork yourself and sleep, or I will come after you Alfred._

_Hugs and kisses,_

  _F. Bonnefoy_

-

_June 26_ _th_ _, 1950_

_Francis,_

_Well, I am out of Europe and in Asia. ~~I cannot seem to get a damn break.~~_

_I’m going to be in Korea until the war ends, I think. They said they might send me back to Japan to ‘refuel and rest’ every few months because apparently Kiku is awake. Not talking though. Anyways, I hope Korea doesn’t make this harder than it has to be. I hope this war ends._

_I don’t want to go to war again Francis. ~~Why the hell do I have to do a dick measuring contest with Ivan? Fucking commie son of a bitch.~~ I’d rather bring you to California or Florida so we can relax and get tan and enjoy ourselves._

_Maybe another year._

_I will see you eventually, I promise._

_Stay safe,_

_A. F. Jones_

-

_December 2_ _nd_ _, 1950_

_Francis,_

_I am staying with Kiku until the new year and an unknown time after that. Which, sadly, is not as great as I thought it would be? It’s weird. He barely talks and when he does he is either too scared to say more than a few words to me (or anyone for that matter) or is entirely apologetic about everything. And, when I say everything, I mean everything. I stubbed my toe the second day I was here and he said sorry every time he saw me until we went to sleep._

_It’s not like he used some freaky voodoo power to make me stub my own toe, because if he did, I would know. (Don’t ask.)_

_How is it back over in Western Europe? I got a letter from Britain that had been waiting for me for a month and a half and apparently you’ve been visiting Ludwig? Which, hey, that’s great, but he seemed really, really concerned._

_You are an adult and you make your own decisions, so I am not going to go all British on you and ask you ‘what do you think you are doing you bloody frog, blah blah blah,’ but be mindful of yourself!_

_Also, I think I am going to try to convince my bosses to allow me to stay home and do domestic work unless I want to fight. ~~This whole thing is a drag. Ivan can go~~_

_Hope to hear from you soon!_

_A. F. Jones_

-

_17_ _th_ _of December, 1950_

_Dearest,_

_Well, I suppose that it is better than fighting, yes? Knowing you, you are trying to get the man to warm up to you again, which I have no doubt that you will accomplish. Hopefully it is sooner rather than later._

_I have been with Germany more than a few times over the past few months. If you must know, he requested extra money to start up his own vegetable garden next planting season. He used to have dogs before both wars and while he wants to own one again, he is unsure if he is ready for such a responsibility. He had been taking care of a few pots of flowers since 1948 and wanted to step up a bit until he feels comfortable with getting a dog again._

_I know I never told you about what we talked about in Potsdam, nor what he told me while France was occupied, but it will come in due time. For now, I am simply taking baby steps. Ludwig also invited me over to celebrate Hanukkah, which he has made it his mission to celebrate every year, among other Jewish holidays and traditions._

_Some day, I believe the world will look to Germany as an example of what one can come back from. Until then, I will keep watch._

_That would be good for you, allowing yourself to go back home. Being in your own country is the best place to be. ~~Usually.~~ I am sure you will be able to convince them, as I am sure I can convince my government to allow me to visit you. To discuss the ERP, of course._

_Kisses,_

_F. Bonnefoy_

-

_January 3_ _rd_ _, 1951_

_Francis,_

_I am being sent back into combat next week so this is the last you will hear from me for a while. We have already made good progress! I think. I gave Kiku a camera for Christmas and since then he hasn’t been as tense or scared around me anymore. We talked, not going to get into details, but we have an understanding of each other now._

_What has happened is water under the bridge. I prefer looking towards the future in these situations anyways._

_It sounds like Ludwig is slowly forgiving himself then. I was the one who suggested growing flowers back during the airlift. The fact that he’s talking too is also a relief. I think in the year I was there flying planes he said three sentences to me, two of which were basically the same thing. And as I have said, it’s your life and your story to tell when you feel like it. Take your time. I respect that._

_I agree with you regarding your last comment about him. I only hope he will be able to do the same._

_I think I will make the appeal after this war is over. I am already here so what is the difference if I stay for another year or if I leave now? At least this way I will have less paperwork to do._

_I will gladly discuss the ERP with you any day. Over dinner, with wine, perhaps? My treat._

_Well wishes,_

_A. F. Jones_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's this chapter twenty billion years late. I will try to finish this fic sometime. Don't know when but eventually. Sorry for the wait. Comments/kudos are highly appreciated!


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